Life Support
by Lavender Cat
Summary: It's 1982, and Ford Pines has called his brother to Oregon, in desperate need of his help. Fate keeps Ford in this reality, and forces him to confront some very uncomfortable truths about his relationship with his twin.
1. Chapter 1

Stan Pines was underwater, swimming against a strong current that made his arms and legs ache with the effort it took to keep him moving forward. It made him think of Glass Shard Beach, of home, when he was little and dove under the waves, wanting to see the fish and the plants that swayed gently down there in the depths. His mother always hated when he did that, because how was she supposed to know he was safe if he didn't stay where she could see him? He might be a strong swimmer, but he could still be swept into tide pools and pulled down by undertows. Then where would he be? Drowning, that's where. Unable to catch his breath and without his mother there because he'd been a bonehead and swum out of sight…

Wait. Breathing. He was breathing. The breaths he took were laborious and shallow, but they were there none the less. You weren't supposed to be able to breathe underwater…

With a jerk, he remembered where he was. He wasn't underwater. He was behind the wheel of his car. And he was about to veer that car right off this narrow country road and into a tree.

He yanked the wheel to the right, and even though his tires slid on the snow-and-ice-glazed ground, he eventually righted himself. He stomped on the brakes once the nose of his car was again going the right direction. He needed to gather himself, just for a second.

He'd been driving for six hours in this god forsaken cold, and fourteen hours the day before that. As soon as he'd left the barren oven of New Mexico, headed up to Oregon, he'd been enveloped by the month of January, which raged icy and unforgiving in the northwest. He'd even heard on the radio (he'd let it drone the first eight hours of the trip, but turned it off after that, when he developed a rager of a headache) that even the northern-most parts of California were getting more than the average amount of powder. Truly, it was a weather front to be reckoned with.

Under any other circumstances, the cold wouldn't have bothered Stan. He'd grown up in Jersey, for god's sake. Driving snow like this was the norm every year, and it typically wasn't even enough to get them out of school. He'd trudged through slush and flakes to get to the bus stop, and stood there waiting while it all soaked through his boots and made his toes go numb, at Ma's insistence.

And then there were the past ten years of his life in general. Living out of his car, with the heat that didn't always work, and only his jacket for a blanket, he got used to cold nights fast. He learned that, if you couldn't drive the chill out, you learned to live with it. Like a relative that had stayed too long after the holidays.

But for the past few days, the cold had not just lingered with Stan. It had burrowed under his skin, nestling there and refusing to budge, no matter how many layers he put on or how hot he managed to get the heater or how many scalding cups of gas station coffee he chugged down. It sent mighty chills down his spine without warning, making him quiver and tremble like a newborn bunny. It was frustrating, to say the very least.

It would have been manageable if he hadn't been so dog-tired. As a rule, he never got much sleep (only when the four walls of a crummy hotel room with a reliable lock were there to protect him; otherwise it made you vulnerable), and always felt a vague sense of sleepiness, but this was a whole different beast. This was a fog, a thick haze that clouded his vision and made him…blink out every now and then. That fir he'd almost collided with wasn't the first since he'd crossed the border into Oregon. At least once, he'd been jolted into awareness by the sharp honk of another car, alerting him that he'd drifted into their lane and nearly tore off their front bumper. He'd wave apologetically and pressed the gas a little more, willing himself to stay awake and in his own lane for the remainder of the trip.

Obviously, he'd not been incredibly successful.

After another moment or two, he gently pressed the gas, and the car continued its bobbing ascend up the road. He had to get where he was going. It was the most important thing he'd had to do since he'd been kicked out of his home at eighteen a little over ten years ago. He'd been summoned by Ford, the twin brother he hadn't seen in those ten years.

The postcard that had been slid under his hotel room door hadn't said anything other than that Ford needed him to come to a small town called Gravity Falls, but that was all Stan needed. He'd packed his meager belongings into a duffel bag, tossed it in the car, and headed out on the road within hours of receiving the summons. He'd shoved aside the fact that his muscles were sore and his head ached. Ford needed him, so he'd go. That was how it'd always been.

Deep down, somewhere in a part of Stan that was still hopeful and full of daydreams about reconciling with his beloved brother, that's exactly what he was headed to. He'd open the door to his brother's house, and instantly be met with open arms that pulled him close and mumbled tearful apologies. The soreness would drip from his body, like pulling off a heavy overcoat, and Ford would be his friend again, his brother, who cared about him and was so, so sorry he'd had to live the way he had, and he should have said something to keep Dad from tossing him out, should have fought harder, could Stan ever forgive him?

And of course Stan would. He knew he'd never be able to hold what happened against Ford. The poor guy had been upset, hadn't had his head on straight. Even geniuses let themselves be blinded by emotion. He'd just lost his chance to go to his dream school, and to be fair, Stan had kind of accidentally been the reason that happened. Tempers were lost, regrettable things were said. But all that was going to change now.

Sure, it'd taken Ford ten years to reach out, but Stan couldn't exactly say he'd been much better. He'd lost count of how many times he'd stopped at a pay phone, dialed Ford's number, only to not say a peep as soon as Ford's voice came on the line before hanging up in a panic. He was as much to blame for the rift as his brother was. But now, things were going to be right again. He just knew it.

Stan shivered again, so hard he nearly lost his grip on the wheel. He just clutched it harder, unwilling to let it go, eventually making his knuckles turn white. Anything to keep him focused. He didn't want anymore distractions. He was nearly there. No more blinking out, no more whining about being cold and achy. Just a few more miles up this road, and he'd be with Ford again.

Even as the tail end of his car fishtailed a bit on a patch of ice, he nudged the accelerator again.

"Who is it?! Have you come to steal my eyes?!"

Stan pulled back as a sharp arrow, lodged purposefully in a crossbow, was pointed directly at his face. The sudden movement made him dizzy, but he tried not to let it show. He instead shifted his gaze to Ford. The latter twin had definitely seen better days. He was haggard and unkempt, at least days worth of stubble accumulated on his worn face. His eyes were wild, bloodshot, and Stan swore he saw one of them twitch as Ford leveled the crossbow at him. So much for a sweet reunion.

"Well, I can always count on you for a warm welcome," Stan said, furrowing his brow.

Clarity seemed to enter Ford's vision as he lowered the crossbow a bit. "Stanley…" he said, as if he didn't remember that he was the one who invited Stan up here, and finding him on his doorstep was a complete shock. "Did anyone follow you? Anyone at all?"

That small, optimistic part of Stan that had been hoping for a touching reconciliation was rapidly withering to nothing. "Yeah, hello to you too, pal," he grumbled tiredly. He was really starting to think he'd get a warmer reception staying out here in the snow.

Suddenly, Ford shot out an arm, and grabbed the front of Stan's jacket. With a yank, Ford pulled him inside. As soon as the yelp of surprise left Stan's throat, there was a beam of light shining directly into his eyes. The two-day headache that had been festering there intensified at the harsh light, and Stan let out a bark of discomfort. "Hey! What is this?"  
Ford pulled away, snapping off the handheld light he'd shone into Stan's face. "Sorry. I had to make sure you weren't…uh…it's nothing. Come in, come in."

Ford turned away from him sharply, beckoning his twin to follow him, leaving Stan to close the door, which he did, as soon as his skull stopped threatening to explode. When he had his senses about him again, he turned his attention back to his twin. Ford was hunched over, pulling the trench coat he wore around his shoulders like it could protect him from something only he could see. Stan noticed that twitch in his gait again, this time spreading throughout his twin's entire body. It was like someone was poking him with invisible needles, making him jerk and jump like a voodoo doll. Stan shivered again, and this time, the cold had very little to do with it.

He followed behind Ford, and asked cautiously, "Look, are gonna explain what's going on here? You're acting like Mom after her tenth cup of coffee."

Ford was busy gathering up papers from a desk shoved against the wall. He sounded far away and harried as he said, "Listen, there isn't much time." He turned back to Stan, his eyes, if at all possible, even wider and wilder than when he'd met Stan at the door. "I've made huge mistakes, and I don't know who I can trust anymore."

Ford began to walk back towards him, his arms laden with books and papers. He stopped suddenly, and Stan followed his brother's gaze to a hanging skeleton close by. Ford's eyes narrowed to slits, and, balancing his abundance of papers in one arm, Ford reached up and turned the skeleton's head away from him. Stan noticed a slight tremble had worked its way into his brother's frame. Whatever reason he had for what he'd just done, it obviously rattled him.

As Ford started walking again, Stan reached out and put a hand on his brother's back. It felt warm under his own icy touch. "Hey, easy there. Let's talk this through, okay?"

Ford seemed to slump under the touch. Stan couldn't tell if it was exhaustion or shame. He'd worn both himself at various points in his young life, and he knew for a fact that they could coexist very well together.

"I have something to show you," Ford finally said, voice strained. He turned back towards Stan, waving a hand in front of him melodramatically. "Something you won't believe."

Stan fought to keep himself from scoffing. His throat was suddenly feeling very dry, and he didn't know if he'd be able to keep it from turning into coughing. Instead, he just said, "Look, I've been around the world, okay? Whatever it is, I'll understand."

Ford said nothing in return, just heaved a heavy sigh and turned away again. He started walking, so Stan decided to follow.

Boy howdy, was that a mistake. As soon as he took a step, he wobbled, his knees suddenly turning to jelly beneath him. If he didn't grab on to something, he'd pitch forward and onto Ford's floor. Shooting out a shaking arm, he grabbed hold of the edge of a table, holding some kind of weird skull in a tank. His heavy, stumbling footfalls managed to capture Ford's attention, because he jerked around to face his twin again, a look on his face that screamed "Why did I leave the crossbow at the door?!"

"What's the matter now?" Ford asked, his tone bordering on annoyed. Through the dizzy haze, irritation crept into Stan's mind. He couldn't even pretend to be concerned? The cynical, bitter part of Stan that had been cultivated through a decade of criminal activity and fighting to stay alive burbled up in his mind, flaring like fire, and for a brief moment, he wanted to snap something back. But he didn't. The shivers were threatening to come back, so strong they'd knock him flat on his ass, until he really was sprawled out on Ford's floor.

Actually, that didn't sound so bad right now. It was warm in this little shack, and even though the cold still clung to his bones, he felt a little better than he had out in the car. Maybe he really should just lay down, worry about whatever Ford's problem was later. Tomorrow even. He was somewhere with locks, a way to keep people out. A good night's sleep wouldn't hurt anyone. Ford had waited ten years to drag him out here. He could wait another twenty-four hours until Stan had rested, just a little.

"Stanley!" Ford barked. It made Stan yank his head back up, despite every muscle in his neck protesting with pain and exhaustion. Ford didn't even seem to notice. "If you're done with the theatrics, could you at least try to keep up?"

Stan narrowed his eyes at Ford, and with every ounce of strength his limp noodle arms had in them, he pushed himself off the table and followed behind his brother. He kept his mind on his steps, making sure they didn't wobble. Ford lead him to the back end of the house, and to a door. Ford gingerly opened it, and Stan saw the hesitant nervousness in his eyes. Pfft, who was Ford for getting on his case about theatrics?

Ford disappeared past the door, so Stan continued to follow. There was a flight of stairs leading down, and the very sight of them made Stan's head spin. He watched as his brother purposefully trotted down them, papers flying out of his arms every which way. He knew that hesitation would only get more grumbling from Ford. Just thinking about it made his headache worse, and that made him even dizzier. Jeez, what the heck was wrong with him? It was a couple of stairs, and there was a handrail. He'd be fine.

He still took the steps carefully, methodically. The last thing he wanted was to trip and split his head open at the bottom of stairs leading to a spooky basement. Ford paid him no mind, simply got to the bottom of the stairs and kept on going. Stan eventually made his way down as well, and he was instantly met with a giant…thing.

He wasn't sure what it was. It was a huge, metal structure, strange symbols Stan couldn't even hope to decipher etched around the open hole directly at its center. On the floor in front of it were two more holes that looked like jet turbines, a lever sitting between them that Stan could only assume was meant to turn the device on and off.

Ford certainly hadn't been playing with kid gloves out here in the middle of nowhere.

"There," Stan said, "is nothing about this I understand."

He stared up at the metal thing while Ford launched into an explanation of what it was, something about punching a hole in the dimension.

Stan was trying to pay attention, he really was, but he'd never been good at any of this science junk. Ford had to remember that, at least. He didn't expect Stan to help him with this, did he? It didn't help that the chills were starting up again, and they were getting harder to hold back. The fog in his head was making him drowsier, taking away what little fight he had left in him. His legs were getting even more jellied than when he was upstairs. Was there something in the air down here?

Oh Christ, thinking hurt. His headache flared up like a wildfire directly behind his eyes, and even the dim dankness of the basement couldn't offer him any respite. The pain only made him dizzier, and the world spun around him once more, almost going full tilt. It reminded Stan of the time he and Ford went down to the beach on a windy day, when they were eight, and just let the waves knock them around - upside down and sideways and every which-a-way.

Was this just his messed up vision, or was he really swaying? It was hard to tell anymore. He was too focused on the cold now. He was sure the blood that flowed through him had been replaced by ice water. He felt it everywhere, from the tip of his aching head all the way down to his toes in shoes that were falling apart. He wanted to pull his jacket tighter around him (what good would that do for chills coming from inside you?), but he couldn't seem to make his hands follow his commands. They just were trembling in front of him, useless to him as two blocks of ice.

He felt himself tipping to one side, aware now that it was him doing the swaying. He quickly tried to right himself, but all that did was make the spinning worse. It was making him nauseous.

And was Ford still talking? Didn't he realize the world was turning upside down around them? That the temperature had dropped below freezing and soon, very soon, there'd be icicles forming on his weird metal thing?

Stan wanted to interrupt him. This all sounded very fascinating, and he was sure it was important, but could they go back upstairs and sit down, for just a minute? Please? He needed to sit down, he ached so much. He couldn't stand up anymore, his muscles couldn't take it. If he stayed down here any longer, he was going to freeze to death, fall apart, die where he stood.

He wanted to say all these things, but his throat was dry as sand. Nothing came out except a small, pathetic moan.

That got Ford's attention. Even through the haze, Stan could tell Ford was annoyed again. Stan wanted to tell him he was so sorry for dying in the middle of his dramatic rambles, but then he felt his knees give out completely, and the floor was inching closer to him. He thought, distantly, he heard running footsteps, someone calling his name. His last coherent thought was at least now he'd be able to lie down.

When Ford heard his brother moan behind him, he'd been ready to snap again. Oh, terribly sorry, Stanley, am I boring you?

He didn't have time to put up with Stan's jokes. He needed him. He was his last hope to stop Bill. He had to get those journals out of here, so no one would ever be able to activate this accursed portal ever again. At the moment he heard his brother moan, this portal had been all that mattered.

But when Ford whipped around and saw Stan falling to his knees, all of that seemed so very, very far away.

Ford moved faster than he thought himself capable, and was at Stanley's side to catch him before he fell face-first against the floor. He grabbed his twin by the shoulders, trying to steady him, kneeling down to offer Stan an anchor to keep him upright. He could feel a burning heat through the fabric of Stan's worn jacket, and wanted to yank his hand away from the sudden and unpleasant sensation, but he held fast. Stan was swaying so much, Ford knew that, if he let go, he'd just pitch forward again.

"Stan, you're burning up," he mumbled uselessly.

With a tiny groan of pain, Stan's head lulled back, resting against Ford's shoulder. The eyes that Ford had hastily shone light into to make sure they contracted were glazed over and sheer exhaustion dwelled deep within them. Drooping eyelids fluttered a little, desperate to close and to sleep.

For a brief moment, panic seized Ford. What if this was Bill? He'd been hearing that demon's voice and giggles for days now, even despite the plate. Could he have finally found a vessel in Stan? Playing a wounded gazelle to get Ford to let his guard down? His grip on Stan's shoulders wavered ever so slightly.

No. Ford shook his head, chasing his paranoia to the farthest recesses of his mind for now, tightening his grip in the fabric of the jacket. He'd know if it was Bill. You couldn't hide the eyes, the terrifying yellow slits that denoted Bill's presence. The body he held belonged only to Stan right now. And that body was burning with fever.

He needed to get Stan somewhere to lie down, out of this dank basement. That certainly couldn't be helping him. The first place he thought of was his own bedroom, up two flights of stairs, but better than the living room, which was currently a mess of papers and uncomfortable hardback chairs.

"Stanley," he said, looking down at his twin again. Stan's eyes were shut, so Ford gave him a gentle shake to wake him. "You can sleep all you want soon," he said, trying to keep his voice even. He couldn't afford to go into panic mode, not when he felt Stan shaking as he tugged himself back into consciousness with a protesting whine. "I need to get you back upstairs. Can you walk?"

Miraculously, Stan seemed to understand him, though his clouded eyes betrayed no such thing. He merely nodded limply. As if to add an extra bit of insurance that he could make it, Ford felt Stan grab at his shirt, gripping it as tightly as his trembling limbs would let him.

"Alright, we'll go slow," Ford said. "Ready? One, two, three." On the count, he started lifting with his knees, trying to get Stan back on his feet. He could practically feel Stan straining to help beside him. Stan had always been heavier than Ford, in muscle and in pure chub. It made him the perfect middleweight boxer. Less helpful was it to the cause of dragging him up two flights of stairs. Never was that more obvious to Ford than it was right now.

Still, he appreciated Stan's efforts to help, minimal as they were.

Ford walked like he was hiking through mud. Next to him, Stan tried to carry his own weight, attempting to pick up his feet to take steps, usually ending up just dragging them along. Ford had to tell him more than a few times to stop pushing himself so hard, he needed to relax. Stan either didn't hear him, or felt guilty about burdening his brother so much and continued.

As they reached the bottom of the stairs, the word "burden" gave Ford a moment of pause. He began moving an instant later, but the word still traipsed about in his mind as he began working his way up, one step at a time. A burden - that was what his dad had referred to Stan as the night he kicked him out, among other things. A burden, a screw-up, a failure, a mistake. That's why he'd thrown Stan out, never to let him return until he made up the money Ford would have made by going to West Coast Tech.

Something about that had never sat right with Ford. When Stan had been kicked out, the two of them had only been eighteen. The school year had been winding down, and Ford hadn't seen Stan back at all. He could only assume Stan had dropped out after that. How did Filbrick Pines ever expect Stan to make back money that a research grant and a lifetime of painstaking scientific study could achieve?

Ford knew the answer, deep down. Stan would never have been able to do it. That had been the point, he guessed. Their father knew Stan couldn't do it.

He supposed he'd known that answer ten year ago, when Stan was standing on the sidewalk after their fight, his duffel bag clutched close, looking much younger than eighteen as he held up a hand to the window, asking for a high six. He'd known the answer as he closed the blinds, angry and hurt and betrayed to the point where he'd convinced himself whatever happened to Stan, he'd brought it on himself for costing Ford his dream school.

As Ford reached the top step, and Stan started to sag heavier at his side, he tried to tell himself that he'd been right all those years ago. What Stan had done was awful, and it had cost Ford his dream school. He'd been right to turn away from Stan. He wouldn't be where he was today if he hadn't.

But look where you are, Sixer.

He wasn't sure where that voice had come from. He hoisted Stan up a bit, to keep him from slipping from his grip, and thought how it strangely didn't sound like the high-pitched taunts of an inter-dimensional dream demon.

The second set of stairs, thankfully, wasn't too far from the basement stairs, and his bedroom wasn't far beyond that. Venturing a look over at Stan, he saw his twin had closed his eyes again. Ford gave him another shake. "Wake up!" he commanded. Stan moaned again, but otherwise obeyed. He seemed to be focusing all his attention on Ford, giving himself something to zero in on, keep his mind awake and alert.

Ford decided he could help, "That's right, Stan, just keep your eyes on me. We'll be there soon. I can get you some water and some aspirin to help with that fever. You'll be fine. It won't be any worse than that time we caught the mumps. Remember? It was miserable, wasn't it? Well, I guess I should say when I caught the mumps, and Mom made me give them to you."

It was true. They'd been six years old, and Ford had woken up one morning complaining of a sore throat and hurting all over. His mother confined him to his bed, but by evening, he was scalding to the touch, and after an emergency house call from Dr. Pulaski, it'd been decreed that Ford indeed had the mumps. And, like with the chickenpox before and the measles two years after, Stan had been ordered to sit at his brother's bedside to catch it himself. Mom thought it built immunity, as her own mother had done with her. Pretty soon, both boys were sick and feeling weak as newborn kittens.

Ford was sure that Stan remembered (how could he not, he still teased Ford about being a leper well into their teen years), but Ford went on babbling about their week of misery together, how Ford had read the entirety of Tom Sawyer and most of Treasure Island out loud, to occupy them both; how they played so many games of go fish and rummy that they vowed never to play either game again once they were healthy; how they drew pictures of Crampelter and then doodled all over them, adding devil horns and a few stink lines.

Stan watched Ford's face the entire time he babbled about the mumps, right up until they were in the upstairs hall. Much to Ford's surprised and pleasure, he saw Stan's lips twitch into a smile. He'd forgotten how much he missed Stan's smile these days.

The smile was ripped away suddenly though, when a rattling, hacking cough erupted from Stan's lungs. The force of it surprised both the brothers, to the point where it nearly knocked them down.

Even though they were almost directly outside the open door to Ford's bedroom, Ford made them stop, and together they waited until the hacking subsided. Ford even tested the waters and gave Stan's back a gentle rub. He could only imagine how many muscles Stan had managed to pull when the fit had started. The weak whimper of pain Stan let out when he'd finally finished and took in a shaky breath only confirmed that suspicion.

"It's okay, Stan, we're nearly there," Ford said gently, giving his brother's back a soft pat before they continued on their way. He ducked them both through the door, and found himself never more relieved to see his unmade, overstuffed bed in his life.

He brought Stan over and managed to keep him upright long enough to sit him down on the edge of the bed. He started unzipping the jacket (he hadn't noticed how filthy it was on the way up, how did Stan put up with it?), and was shocked when Stan's trembling hands came up and fumbled to stop him.

Ford mentally slapped himself. It might feel like Stan was burning up to him, but Stan probably felt like he was freezing to death. His brain was working overtime to fight whatever disease coursed through him, and his body was trying to compensate.

"Stan, it's okay," Ford said, taking his brother's hands in his own. He had to admit, they did feel incredibly cold. He'd venture to say they were the only thing that was on Stan's burning body. "It's okay. I know you feel cold, but we'll take care of that soon. We'll get you under some blankets so you can sweat this out, okay? But the jacket will be uncomfortable, so I think you should take it off. Can I do that for you?"

Really, the reason Ford wanted Stan to lose the jacket was because it was probably a hive of germs. As soon as he got it off and got Stan somewhat more comfortable, he was going to toss it in the washing machine on hot and dump in as much detergent as the machine could handle.

Eventually, Stan nodded, probably too tired to continue picking the fight. Too tired to maintain that trademark stubbornness he'd inherited from their father (all the while refusing to admit he'd inherited anything from Dad). Ford let out a sigh and unzipped the jacket the rest of the way, slipped Stan's limp arms out, and tossing it away as soon as it was off, as far from him as possible.

Underneath the jacket wasn't much better. Stan wore a simple white t-shirt, not at all thick enough to keep out the biting chill of the driving snow outside, which picked now of all times to remind the brothers it was there by making the window at the other end of the room rattle. If the fever was already giving Stan chills, Ford couldn't imagine how miserable he must have been on the way out here. He had to fight another pang of guilt as he helped Stan lay back.

As soon as Stan's head touched the pillow, he was out like a light. No amount of shaking or calling to him would bring him back to the land of the conscious now, and Ford decided that was probably for the best. He pulled his sheet and comforter up and over Stan, even going so far as to tuck in the edges. He looked back at Stan's face to see a few strands of the long, brown hair had fallen into his twin's face. He found himself shaking his head. Leave it to Stan to grow a freaking mullet. Ford brushed the strands away, deciding he'd deride his brother about his fashion choices later.

He decided that now was as good a time as any to wash that foul-smelling jacket. Maybe grab a few more blankets and bring back some cold water for Stan. It might help with the fever. He stooped down to pick up the jacket as he headed out the door, and grabbed the knob to shut it. But then, a feeling of unease coursed through him. It didn't linger long, but there was no denying that it had been there.

Ford left the door open and headed downstairs.


	2. Chapter 2

With the washing machine now dutifully thrumming away, hopefully sanitizing Stan's jacket, Ford wondered if maybe he should give his parents a call.

When he'd first moved out here and gotten a phone line installed, he'd tried to keep in contact with them at least once a month. They'd always gladly accepted the charges, his mother claiming it was much nicer to actually hear his voice than to just read a letter from him. Felt like he was closer.

He hadn't called them in a while. He'd been too afraid to pick up the phone, always worrying that there might be someone who would ambush him while he talked, blithely ignorant to them sneaking up behind him. On days where he hadn't gotten much sleep the past few nights before, he would convince himself that there was something in the phone, and it was slide through the receiver as soon as he picked it up and steal his eyes.

So the phone sat on the wall in the kitchen, gathering dust, while his parents probably told themselves Ford was busy. Smart cookie like him, he was probably knee-deep in some project, and that's why he hadn't called. But he would soon. They just knew it.

Even if Ford did call them now, he didn't know what on earth he'd tell them. Hi, guys, sorry for the long wait, but I've been plagued by a dream demon that may or may not still be in my house and constantly watching me through a inter-dimensional portal I built in the basement, which, incidentally, could bring about the end of the world. Also, Stan is here. He's sweating out a fever in my bed, and is so weak he can't even talk. Anyway, how have you guys been? How's retirement treating Dad?

Yeah. Smooth.

Maybe he'd call them tomorrow, after he'd had an opportunity to figure a few things out. Like a convincing lie about why he hadn't been calling. And maybe he'd mention Stan. His dad always made a point of not talking about Stan whenever they had their short, formal conversations over the phone. If Ford ever brought up some anecdote that happened to involve his twin, Filbrick always grunted a bit in acknowledgment, then swiftly changed the subject. For the longest time, Ford didn't think anything of it. Now, he had to wonder if it was shame that had steered their conversations away from Stan. Whether the shame was for Stan or Filbrick himself, Ford couldn't say.

Yes, he would call his parents tomorrow. Even if it ended up just being a short "sorry about disappearing on you, lots of work to do" call that was over quickly. He was sure his parents would understand. And it wasn't like that was a lie either. He had lots of stuff to deal with. The portal, Bill, hiding the journals -

The journal! Ford had left it down in the basement. It still needed to be hidden.

He thought briefly about Stan up in his bedroom, curled up tightly under the blankets and shaking with the cold, but he pushed it aside. The journal was important. Stan could wait ten minutes while he went downstairs to get it.

He quickly trumped back into the hall, to the basement door, and down the stairs. He tried not to think too hard about the gaping portal looming over him, like the vicious, hungry maw of a monster, threatening to swallow him whole…no. No. He had to stop. He already felt uncomfortable coming down here after what happened to Fiddleford. He didn't need to make it worse by bringing monster delusions into the mix.

He took wide strides to reach the journal where he'd left it on a nearby workbench. The golden emblem shimmered, despite the darkness, and Ford suppressed a shiver. It was so hard to believe, just looking at that seemingly innocent book, that it contained the instructions to bring about the end of the world as they knew it. He picked it up, and it felt cold in his hands, pricking his twelve fingers with it like so many needles.

He tucked it into the inner pocket of his trench coat. He'd sewn that pocket in himself specifically to hold his journals whenever he was out in the field. Usually, the weight of his research this close to him was a comforting reminder - he had done and discovered amazing things in this town, and it was all recorded in these books.

Now, it weighed heavy and oppressive, like a tumor, in that pocket. It felt even colder now.

Ford quickly hustled to get back up the stairs. The feeling of a single eye watching him from the deep, secretive shadows tripped through his mind again.

He needed to get back to Stan. He had to get him back on his feet. There was no more time.

Stan couldn't see very clearly when he heard the door to Ford's bedroom squeak on its hinges. Thudding footsteps, muffled by the exhausted fog that was his consciousness, resounded nearby. For a brief moment, his fever-addled brain was sure that Ford's paranoia had been on point, and someone had followed him up here. Rico and his goons, maybe, trying to collect their money, with interest in blood. His heart began pounding in his ears. Even if it wasn't Rico, there was a long list of people he'd become familiar with over the years who wouldn't mind disposing of him. And in his present state, Stan knew he wouldn't come out on top in such a fight.

So, when Ford's blurry face came into view, Stan deflated with relief. Ford was safe. Ford was his brother. Ford wouldn't hurt him. Ford cared.

That final sentiment nearly brought tears to his eyes as the full weight of its implications struck him. Ford cared. His hope hadn't been unfounded. When he got better, they'd work things out. Ford would apologize, Stan would apologize, and they'd finally be together again. No more living on the road, no more being alone. Stan would finally have a place to call home again.

Ford was busying himself setting things out on the bedside table beside Stan's head. Stan was too tired to shift his gaze up and see what was there. He really just wanted to close his eyes and go to sleep for a few hours. Maybe days. An entire week of just napping. He was sure their reconciliation could wait until then. He'd be feeling better by then.

Movement drew his attention back to Ford, who was now shaking something. Squinting slightly (even though it made his head throb), he saw it was a thermometer, an old mercury one. Just like what Mom used to take their temperatures with, that had ruined so many of his attempts to fake sick and stay home from school. She just whipped that thing out and discovered the younger twin wasn't actually dying of a high grade fever. Only a case of incredibly lazy bones.

Stan felt his lips tweak into a brief smile that faded quickly. He missed Mom. More than he was ever willing to admit out loud. She was the only one who'd consistently stood by him through the years. Had been concerned when their principal pretty much told her upfront that Stan would never amount to anything. Had actually said something the night his father kicked him out, while Ford had just stood there, staring down at him in fury and pain…

Ford spoke suddenly, rousing Stan from his thoughts. "I need you to put this under your tongue, Stan. Can you open your mouth?"

Stan silently obeyed. He didn't really think he could have answered anyway. He felt the cool tip of the glass glide under his tongue and rest there, and Ford gently ordered him to close and hold it there. He obeyed again, but opening his mouth had made his realize just how dry his mouth and throat were. He had never wanted a drink more in his life. Not even that time when he'd been trapped in a truck in the New Mexico desert for thirteen hours.

He wanted to ask Ford for some water, but he knew you weren't supposed to talk when these things were in your mouth. That was something Mom always scolded him about when she took his temperature. He'd swallow it if he wasn't careful, then he'd be in a whole different heap of trouble.

She hadn't bothered to take his temperature when she'd forced him to get the mumps from Ford. She just put a gentle hand on his forehead and tucked him into bed, telling him she knew this was awful, but she promised that he'd be better soon. She'd make sure to take care of her free-spirit Stanley, she'd said, planting a tiny, covert kiss on her youngest twin's forehead. She hadn't done the same for Ford at the time. Even at the tender age of six, Stan knew that it was because she'd wanted to give him affection that was just his for once, something he didn't have to share with the brother he was always compared to.

A pang in his chest threatened to send tears to his eyes again, and made him want to weep so much this thermometer wouldn't have a chance of staying put. He shut his eyes, to try and will the feeling away. God, he just missed his mom so much…

He felt the thermometer being slipped out from under his tongue, and for the briefest moment, he wanted it back, if only so he could keep thinking about his mother.

He heard Ford sigh a little, and cracked an eye open.

"102.2," he mumbled, his glasses pulled down a bit so he could read the itty bitty print on the glass tube. "Not too bad. I brought you some aspirin. That should help bring it down."

Stan watched through his one open eye as Ford unscrewed the lid on a nearly empty bottle of aspirin. The remaining pills rattled about inside. Even that tiny sound made Stan's head throb again, and he screwed his eyes shut, attempting futilely to make it stop.

"Come on Stan, you've gotta sit up for this," he heard Ford mutter beside him. He could hear that familiar annoyance creeping back into his brother's tone.

The only trouble was, Stan didn't know if he could sit up. His entire body felt like a raw bruise; even the simple motion of blinking seemed to wipe him out. He knew that, if he felt more able to talk and tried to tell that to Ford, he'd be scoffed at. Told to stop being such a drama queen, take his medicine already. It was a much-used platitude of their dad's when he was sick as a child. Whereas Mom was gentle, soothing, all hair-stroking and soft reassurances, Filbrick Pines was as unemotional about it as he was with everything else. The boys needed to stop bellyaching and take their medicine like men. They couldn't let every little cough and sneeze drag them down. They were Pines boys. Pines boys were tougher than anything.

Stan let his shoulders sag a little in shame, but, rallying together the minimal amount of strength he had left in his aching body, he rolled on his back, propped himself up on his elbows, and forced himself to sit up. If only to make the gruff voice that had thrown him out of his home shut up for two seconds.

As Stan sat up, the blankets slipped down around his waist, and he wished for nothing more than to yank it back up, burrow down deep under them, and never come out. Ford's bedroom felt like the inside of a meat locker. The windows that protected them from the howling wind and driving snow outside might as well have been gaping holes in the cabin's side. A small part of him knew that it was because of the fever, but a louder part of him didn't care. He just needed to get warm.

It was only when Ford's six-fingered hands came into view that Stan realized how badly he was shaking. His teeth were nearly chattering. But he felt those six-fingered hands slip something over his shoulders, something warm and fuzzy, and the tremors lessened.

Ford slipped the aspirin into Stan's hand, told him to put it in his mouth, and then filled the empty hand with a glass of water. Stan felt that cold glass pressed into his fingers, and forgot all about how frigid he felt. Right now, all he cared about was that water.

Willing the trembling in his hands to cease, he raised the glass to his lips, and as soon as it made contact, he started drinking greedily. It felt, to him, like the greatest thing he'd ever tasted. He hardly noticed the aspirin tablet go sliding down his throat. He didn't stop until the glass was completely drained.

Pulling the glass away, he coughed a little, mostly due to the fact he hadn't taken one breath in the several minutes it took to get all the water down. He felt Ford slip the empty glass out of his hand, giving a small bark of a chuckle as he did so.

"I was going to tell you to slow down," his brother said, "but I really don't think it would have done much good. You can lay back down now, if you want. That aspirin should help bring your fever down a bit."

Stan didn't need to be told twice. He thudded back into the bed as if his whole body had suddenly been replaced with lead. His arms felt too heavy to pull the blankets now bunched around his legs back up, so he just pulled whatever Ford had put around his shoulders tighter around him. Glancing up a bit, he realized it was a knitted afghan, made of the ugliest green yarn he'd ever seen in his life, some kind of horrific mix between pea soup and mold you found in sketchy rest stop bathrooms.

His face must have betrayed his disgust, because he heard Ford giving that short bark of a laugh again, and as he pulled the blankets back up around Stan's middle, he said, "Yeah, I know, it's hideous. Fiddleford thought so too. That's why he gave it to me. His grandmother gave it to him as a going away present when he left for school, and he didn't have the heart to bury it in his backyard like he wanted. He gave it to me for Christmas one year instead. Only reason I keep it around is because its warm."

Stan gave a silent hiccup of a laugh, blowing hot air through his nose. He had no clue who "Fiddleford" was, but he sounded like a friend of Ford's, so he supposed he could stand a few stories about the antics they got up to in college. The thought of Ford doing anything that even barely resembled college antics nearly made Stan laugh again. His brother - the goody-two-shoes that always said "yes ma'am" and "yes sir" and "please and thank you", who all the teachers and grown-ups loved because he was such a kiss-ass - doing anything that might get him in trouble was right up there with pigs flying.

Stan wanted to work up the strength to say something to that effect (that aspirin really did do wonders, his head already felt a little less like it was full of cotton), but when looked back to Ford, he noticed the far-off look in his brother's eyes. Even in his exhaustion, Stan saw the sadness in it, the regret, maybe even a bit of that fear from when Ford had first answered the door. He wondered if it had anything to do with this Fiddleford guy. Was that the reason Ford had been so shaken up? Maybe Fiddleford wasn't a person he wanted to tell stories about or remember fondly.

Something seemed to drag Ford out of his thoughts and back into his bedroom, and he snapped his head back towards Stan, almost looking shocked that his twin was still there, looking concerned.

Ford cleared his throat abruptly, forcing a small smile, and then said, "You're probably hungry. Let me go see what I can throw together downstairs. Haven't been shopping in a while…" Ford let out another short laugh, just as forced as the smile. "You'd think after all these years away from home, I'd remember to get to the store more often." Then a look of shock plastered itself across Ford's face, as if he'd just said something horrible offensive. He quickly turned, muttering an "I'll be right back," over his shoulder, and headed out into the hall.

Stan listened as his brother thudded down the stairs, and couldn't help but wonder what had been going on in this house that had Ford so wound up. Setting his head down on the pillow again, his eyelids suddenly becoming quite heavy, he thought that maybe he could ask Ford later, when he was feeling better. When things between them were better.

By the time night had fallen, the wind had died down a little. Even though the snow still fell relentlessly, it wasn't rattling the windows and threatening to shatter them. Fat flakes merely floated down gently, almost postcard-esque into their cold beauty.

In the chair beside the bed that housed his napping twin brother, Ford watched them fall with a sense of wonder. He'd always liked the snow, ever since he was a little kid. Glass Shard Beach may not have been the best place to grow up, but it did brag some of the best winter storms a wide-eyed kid could ask for. Throughout the winter months, Ford would watch out the window long after he should have been asleep, as the world was buried under a soft blanket of luminescent white, glowing in a way that was unnatural, yet comforting.

Now, though, all the falling snow did was make him feel smothered. He was caught in a tide, and it was rising dangerously, threatening to pull him under and wrench the life out of his lungs before casually moving on to the next target.

Ford shivered so hard he nearly lost his grip on his book. Not that it would have mattered. He wasn't reading it anyway.

He tried all afternoon to bring up the real reason he'd asked Stan to come up here. It had been the most important, pressing thing on his mind for days. It was what motivated him to stay focused, to keep from running, screaming, into the woods because the voices that whispered to him day in and day out had finally driven him into impenetrable madness. Even if giving in had seemed so much easier, the better alternative to hearing those voices bombarding him and robbing him of any peace, he'd held on to one truth - Stanley could take the journal. Then it would all be over. He'd dismantle the portal as soon as his research was safely hidden, and then everything would go back to normal. This had been his lifeline.

But now that Stan was here and so sick, Ford kept finding excuses not to tell him his real motivation. Earlier, he'd sworn he would tell Stan as soon as they'd both eaten something. They'd both be able to handle things better on full stomachs, after all.

Then, when Stan had fallen asleep shortly after emptying a bowl of condensed soup Ford had split between them, Ford rationalized that his brother needed his rest. The journals could wait, despite the final one practically burning a hole in the hidden pocket of his coat with its cold weight. He'd ended up shucking the coat altogether and tossing it over the back of the chair to rid himself of the sensation.

A few hours ago, Stan had woken himself up with a coughing fit, and Ford had told himself then that Stan was in no shape to hear about the journals now. As he helped Stan drink some more water to quell the sharp, wet hacking, he just knew he couldn't spring all this on the poor guy when he was in such a state. It could wait till he'd rested at least a few more hours. If he woke up before midnight, Ford would tell him. That was final.

Ford glanced down at his watch. The hands were at 11:53, and still Stan slept, his breathing a bit shaky, but even. He'd barely moved in the last several hours, not even to twitch when Ford had turned on his bedside lamp in his vain attempt to read. He couldn't help but feel relieved by that.

Ford drummed his fingers gently against the cover of his book. Maybe this could all wait until tomorrow. He was sure Stan would be feeling better by then. He'd taken his brother's temperature after the last coughing fit, and it had gone down a bit. Just let him rest until morning. He really looked like he needed it.

Ford felt an unpleasant surge of feeling shoot through him with that last thought. It wasn't too difficult to realize it was guilt, and Ford fought hard to shove it down. He had nothing to feel guilty about. Yeah, Stan was in pretty bad shape, but whose fault was that? Certainly not Ford's. He hadn't personally tossed Stan out, and told him not to come back till he'd made a fortune. That had all been Dad. Sure, Ford hadn't exactly stood up for Stan, and deep down he'd known that Stan couldn't ever meet the demands that Dad placed on him. But Stan had cost him his dream school. He just expected Ford to stay put and let him leech off his success forever, or do that childish treasure hunting thing Stan always talked about.

Really, if Stan would have just been mature about things, and realized how important going to West Coast Tech had been to his brother, none of this would have happened to him. Stan wanted to laze through life, lying and cheating and letting everyone else carry him. He simply refused to grow up. And that wasn't anyone's fault but his own.

Ford's shaking hands brought him out of his thoughts. He looked down at them and realized he'd been clutching his book so tightly, his knuckles were turning white from the strain, and the book jostled in his angry grip.

He took a few deep breaths, willing himself to calm down. There was no sense in getting angry about this. Stan seemed to have forgotten all about the past. After all, he'd rushed out here to help him. Maybe Stan finally had grown up in all those years on his own. If he was willing to leave the past in the past, so was Ford. It would be better for everyone.

Gently, he set his book on the bedside table next to the aspirin bottle. He caught a glimpse of his watch again. It was 11:58. He looked back over to Stan, whose mouth had fallen open a bit as he slept. It made his breathing a little noisy, but other than that, he seemed fine.

Ford sighed quietly, and unlatched his watch, setting it with a dull thud on top of his book. He slid his glasses off his face, and placed them near the watch. The journals could wait until morning. Everything was fine.

He pulled his coat up off the back of the chair, and slung it around his shoulders. It was warm, and it made his eyelids heavy. As he drifted off, he casually thought about how he didn't even feel the cold weight of the journal next to him anymore.

When Stan woke up, it was dark, it was cold, and there was someone whimpering nearby.

He thought for a moment that maybe he himself was making the noise, and instantly began to chide himself for being so pathetic. Sure, he still ached, very much in fact, but it was probably just because he'd been asleep for so long. It had to at least been several hours since he last woke up. No wonder he was as stiff as a corpse. It was nothing to cry over.

But as his mind focused minutely, he realized the sound were coming from somewhere in the dark. He blinked a few times, and even though it made his vision swirl, his eyes eventually adjusted to the heavy darkness.

Ford was fast asleep in a chair by his side. Well, he shouldn't really say fast asleep, because even though his brother was hunched over, his trench coat wrapped tightly around his shoulders to function as a blanket, Stan could see the rest was anything but peaceful.

Ford's face twitched in agitation, and every now and then, a low whine or whimper escaped his throat. He was quite obviously having a nightmare, and a pretty bad one at that.

Stan was no stranger to nightmares. You didn't go through what he had - the Colombian prisons, the loan sharks, the many attempts at a fast buck he shuddered to look back on now - and walk away without some unpleasant memories to haunt your sleep. His heart went out to his brother. Whatever he'd summoned Stan out here to do, it wasn't good. He hoped that he could help him somehow, show Ford just how much he still cared, always had cared. Ford wouldn't ever be able to turn him away again after this.

Another, louder sound of protest escaped Ford. It sounded to Stan very eerily similar to a shout of pain. He couldn't let this continue.

He fished a weak arm out from under the blanket and reached out. Even though his skin still felt like ice in this freezing room (it actually almost felt worse, but Stan didn't dwell on that for now), he settled his hand on Ford's knee. Ignoring the pain that shot through him because of this one act, he gently shook Ford, trying to get him to wake up.

When all he was met with was a whimper, Stan said, his voice hoarse and small, "Come on, Sixer, wake up. It's just a bad dream. Sixer?"

Ford merely whined again, and this time, Stan swore he heard something akin to the words, "Please…no…" along with it.

He shook Ford's knee again, harder this time, and said louder, "Sixer? Ford? Wake up. You're okay, buddy. You're okay."

Ford's breathing was picking up, as if he were running from something that was slowly gaining on him. He spoke again, this time the words clear as a bell. "Please. Leave me alone."

Stan didn't care anymore how badly he ached. He propped himself up on his elbows again, and shoved himself into a sitting position. He ignored his body screaming in white, hot, protesting agony, and moved his hand up to Ford's shoulder. He shook harder, saying his brother's name louder than before. "You gotta wake up, bud. Ford! Wake up!"

That seemed to do it. Ford's eyes shot open, and an arm, flung in defense from whatever had been chasing him through his nightmares, nearly clocked Stan right in the chin. Somehow, he managed to dodge it. He immediately turned back to Ford, who had shot up out of the chair, his breathing frantic and his chest heaving with the force of it.

Stan stood up, mentally begging his quivering legs to hold him steady, and reached out to take hold of Ford's arms. He didn't need his brother lashing out anymore, not knowing how many more times he'd be able to dodge a thrown limb quite that deftly. His sickness seemed to be catching up with him as he clutched Ford's shirt as tightly as he could, and felt his arms tremble with the effort.

Ford did not appreciate being clung to, and jerked himself this way and that, trying to loosen the grip of whatever was holding him. Stan tried to get him to calm down, repeating his name and gentle reassurances over and over, but Ford wasn't clocked in at the moment. He was in survival mode.

Trying to survive against what, Stan was too afraid to think about.

He wasn't getting anywhere with Ford like this. In desperation, he noticed the bedside lamp, and let go of Ford's arm just long enough to fumble for the switch and flick it on. Their small patch of the room was suddenly flooded with light, and it made Stan's head feel like it was about to explode.

But, luckily, it also seemed to be what Ford needed to snap out of it.

The crazed struggling stopped, and although Ford's chest still heaved with fright, at least that too was beginning to even out. Stan watched as the panic left his face, leaving him looking confused.

"Stan…" Ford ventured, his voice small and quavering. He squinted in the general direction of his brother's face, and Stan suddenly realized his twin wasn't wearing his glasses. He looked to the table and saw them sitting on top of a book. He snatched them up and, gently moving one hand down to Ford's, opened his brother's hand and set them in his palm. Ford quickly opened them and shoved them on his face, blinking a few times to make sure that the world came into focus.

Stan waited a beat, and then gave Ford a small smile. "Hey, Sixer, you alright?"

He watched Ford's Adam's apple bob as he swallowed thickly. After a few seconds of nothing but harried breathing, Ford finally said, "Yeah, I…I'm okay…I'm sorry…you know, for waking you…"

Stan shrugged a little, and said, "Don't worry about it. I just wanted to make sure you were okay."

Something seemed to click in Ford's mind, and he suddenly pulled his arms free of Stan's grasp. With nothing grounding him anymore, Stan swayed a little, and only managed to steady himself enough to slowly lower himself back on the edge of the bed. He pulled the ugly green afghan tighter around his shoulders. Now that Ford was calmed down, the ever-present chill was seeping back into Stan's bones. He could feel shivers threatening to bolt back up and down his spine, and he wasn't sure if his weak legs would be able to keep him up.

Ford, on the other hand, had started to pace, one of his hands pressed firmly over a pocket of his coat. Stan watched his brother for several minutes, as he occasionally muttered or ran a hand through his hair. He'd never seen Ford this upset, not even when he'd first arrived and had a crossbow pointed at him. Whatever he'd dreamed about had really rattled him.

Stan cleared his throat a little, and said, "Ford…you maybe wanna, I dunno, talk about this. I know you were trying to tell me something before all this happened. Why don't you get it off your chest?"

Ford cast a glance at him over his shoulder. It was full of uncertainty, and it made Stan uneasy. He tried to stay calm, though, and looked directly back at his brother's gaze, hoping it looked sympathetic and supportive. All it achieved was Ford turning away again, heaving a heavy, tired sigh.

"Stan," Ford said so abruptly that Stan nearly jumped. "You heard what I said about the portal in the basement, right?"

"Yeah, I guess," Stan said hesitantly. He honestly didn't remember much, only that Ford had been very impatient to explain it to him.

"Stan, it's dangerous," Ford replied. "I thought it would help society, unlock the mysteries of the universe. But it could just as easily be harnessed for terrible destruction." He reached into the pocket he seemed fixated on, and pulled out a leather-bound book. On the well-worn cover, Stan saw a shimmer from a piece of gold foil. It was in the shape of a six-fingered hand, and had the number one written on it in dark, black ink. Ford held it in both hands, tracing a thumb over a corner. "That's why I shut it down and hid my journals, which explain how to operate it. This is the only journal left." Ford paused, seeming to steel himself for what he was about to say. Then he said, "And you are the only person I can trust to take it."

Stan merely blinked. He couldn't think of anything else to say, other maybe asked, his voice cracking with incredulity, exactly what the hell his brother had been up to here in this godforsaken state.

Ford took three large steps, closing the gap between them. "I have something to ask of you," he said, his voice soft and grave. Stan looked up, and met his brother's gaze, firm and determined behind shining glasses. Ford held the book out to him, and Stan had to force his shaking hands up to get a grip on it and take it. It felt heavy and cold in his hands. "Remember our plans to sail around the world in a boat?"

Stan felt a surge of happiness rush through him. Ford remembered about their plans. He still remembered, after a decade. For a moment, that mere fact chased out the cold, and filled Stan with the kind of warm joy that only comes when something you really want has finally been given to you, after a lifetime of waiting. He could practically feel his face lighting up in a smile.

"Tomorrow, when you're feeling better, I want you to take this book, get on a boat, and sail as far away as you can. To the edge of the earth," Ford said, his voice harried. He'd even thrown up his hands, as if to say he'd washed himself of the whole thing. Of his brother. As he turned away from Stan, he said, "Bury it where no one can find it."

As quickly as it had rushed through him, Stan's happiness dripped away and left him feeling cold and confused. He quietly thanked whatever deity existed up there that Ford was facing away from him, so he couldn't see the way his hands shook, the way his eyes began to brim with tears. Anger and sorrow flooded through him, pumping ice water through him that only made him shake harder. He wanted to throw this damn book as far away from him as possible. He wanted to scream and cry. He wanted curse and throw things at Ford's stupid back that was facing away from him, shutting him out just like last time. Just like he always had.

He'd been an idiot to come here. He'd been so stupid to believe that Ford ever wanted to reconcile with him. He didn't matter to Ford. He never had. Ford only saw him the way everyone else did - the spare, the mistake, the one who just stood there until you needed him for something, then all you had to do was get his hopes up, and he'd do anything you asked of him.

He supposed part of him had always known that to be true, but it just hurt so much more now. Maybe it was because of the way things had been going. Ford took care of him. He rushed to Stan's side, the same way Stan had come to Ford when he needed him.

So you could be useful to him, a hard, nasty voice said softly to him. You couldn't do him a favor if you were so sick you couldn't see straight. It wasn't a kindness. It was a convenience.

Any tears Stan might have had evaporated with that thought. The sadness and loneliness that had permeated his life for the past ten years was now replaced with bitter anger that had bubbling just below for some time now. Anger he'd never allowed himself to feel because he'd stupidly, blindly insisted on hanging on to the hope that, someday, Ford would be his brother again.

Well, not anymore.

Standing so quickly he didn't have time to be dizzy, Stan shouted, "That's it? You finally wanna see me after ten years, and it's to tell me to get as far away from you as possible?!"

Ford turned back to face him, shock and frustration written all over his face. It gave Stan a bit of satisfaction. Ford hadn't been prepared for Stan to argue. Well, Stan had news for him; he wasn't gonna be his brother's puppy dog anymore.

"Stanley," he said, running a hand through his hair, "you have no idea what I'm up against! What I've been through!"

Another surge of rage coursed through Stan. Who the hell was Ford to talk about having it hard? And to be so condescending about it, like Stan was still an idiotic child, who couldn't possibly hope to understand what his genius brother had figured out years ago. He barked, "No, no, you don't understand what I've been through. I've been to prison in three different countries! I once had to chew my way, out of the trunk of a car! You think you've got problems?" He jabbed his thumb at himself, to really drive the point home. "I've got a mullet, Stanford!"

He saw a brief flicker of sympathy flash across Ford's face. It conflicted Stan. The last thing he wanted was anyone's pity, but a petty part of him wanted nothing more than for Ford to suffer, knowing how much his brother had endured while he'd been none the wiser. He wanted Ford to feel that guilt.

So, he decided to drive the knife further. "Meanwhile," he went on, "where have you been? Living it up in your fancy house in the woods, selfishly hoarding all your college money, because you only care about yourself." This time, he jabbed a finger in Ford's direction, anger driving him through every motion, through the pain that was building up in his arms and legs from standing for so long.

Any sympathy that had been on Ford's face vanished in that instance.

"I'm selfish?" Ford's voice was dangerously quiet. "I'm selfish, Stanley? How can you say that after costing me my dream school? I'm giving you the chance to do the first worthwhile thing in your life, and you won't even listen!"

Stan's trembling increased, though due to anger or exhaustion, he couldn't tell anymore. Not that he would have cared. He couldn't believe that Ford had the gall to say this to him. The first worthwhile thing he's ever done? Who the hell's fault was it that he'd been kicked out of the house in the first place? Who was the one that wouldn't listen when he'd tried desperately to explain that breaking Ford's project had just been an accident? He would never have purposefully sabotaged his dreams. Yeah, it hurt that Ford was so eager to leave him, but he'd never intentionally hurt his brother. Even if it was the brother who just stood by while he was thrown out and condemned to the miserable, lonely life he now led.

Years of anger threatened to erupt from within him. He could practically feel the heat boiling through his body. He couldn't catch his breath. It felt like there was a weight on his chest.

He wanted Ford to hurt as much as he did.

Fishing into his pocket, he pulled out a lighter. He didn't smoke much these days (cigarettes were expensive), but he kept the lighter with him, just in case. "Well, listen to this," he said. "You want me to get rid of this book? Fine! I'll get rid of it -"

His lungs seized up. For a brief, terrifying moment, Stan couldn't draw breath. He felt his eyes go wide, and his grip on both the book and the lighter loosen.

Then he felt his lungs explode, sending whatever had lodged itself in there shooting up. He started coughing, so powerfully that he couldn't keep his balance. He was vaguely aware of Ford nearby, telling him something in a voice that sounded annoyed and tired. Stan didn't hear it, and couldn't reply to whatever it was. It was like someone had stuffed his ears with cotton, like his throat was a barren desert that hadn't seen rain since the dawn of time. All he could do was cough.

He dropped the book and the lighter. They felt to floor with dull thuds by his feet. He instinctively wrapped his arms around himself, trying to do something about the pain that was now radiating from his torso. Holy shit, had he broken a rib?! He'd broken one before, and the pain had been exactly the same, but that had been from getting struck with a piece of pipe by Rico's goons. This was just coughing. Granted, he couldn't stop, but still.

As Stan's knees gave out and he dropped to the floor, he realized that he'd never been more scared in his life.

He was only vaguely aware when he felt Ford's weight by him once more. He heard Ford trying to be soothing, as he told Stan he'd get him back into bed.

Stan grabbed at his brother's arm instead, yanking as hard as he could to get his attention. He gaped like a fish out of water for a few minutes, trying to get enough air into himself to form words. It wasn't coming. Panic seized him, and that made it even harder to draw breath.

Ford seemed to realize he was trying to speak, and placed a hand on Stan's. It was meant to be comforting. In that brief instance, when all he knew was pain, it actually helped Stan calm down a little.

Finally, he managed to gasp out, "F-ford…ah…I can't…breathe…"

Ford's eyes went wide in fear, but Stan didn't have time to ruminate on them. He was crippled once again by a wet, hacking cough that made him lurch forward with the force of it. Stan swore he felt something come out and spatter on his hand. He and Ford both managed to get a good look at it, and were gripped by the same terrified realization.

On Stan's hand was a crimson streak of blood.


	3. Chapter 3

Ford couldn't sit still. Every couple of minutes, he got up from his seat to move around. It was actually becoming quite a vicious cycle - get up, pace back and forth five times, go over and look out the waiting room window, stand there and tap foot impatiently, get frustrated and go sit back down.

He plunked himself back in his chair to begin the motions all over again. This waiting was driving him crazy, especially after the chaos involved in actually getting to the hospital in the first place.

As soon as Ford had seen that blood come up on Stan's hand, he knew this was serious. He kicked himself for trying to insinuate that Stan was just playing it up to be worse than it was to win his sympathy. He'd only managed to tear himself away from his brother's side when Stan repeated that he couldn't breathe. Then he'd rushed downstairs, nearly pulled the phone out of the wall to call an ambulance, and explained to the dispatcher what was going on.

More than once, the grandmotherly woman on the other end of the line had to tell him to calm down, she couldn't understand him when he was speaking so fast. Ford had almost lost his temper several times, but finally, he managed to tell her the situation, and have her get an ambulance on the road. She'd also felt the need to tell him he was lucky the ambulances had chains for this nasty weather, or they'd never make it to his house out there in the middle of nowhere.

As if Ford didn't feel horrible enough at that moment.

He'd spent the next twenty minutes back upstairs by Stan's side, trying to help him breathe. He knew CPR from a course he was forced to take back in college, but that'd been nearly six years ago, and he'd never been in a situation where he needed it. He wasn't sure he'd have been able to do it if Stan had stopped breathing altogether. Instead, he'd prayed to God and anyone else who might be listening to keep his brother's breaths coming, one after the other, shallow and raspy and terrifying for Ford to listen to, but still there.

By the time the paramedics pulled up, Stan's fever had spiked, and he was practically convulsing with the chills it brought on. He had to cough every couple of minutes, and his breathing was still labored. From the grimace he wore, it hurt Stan with every intake. The paramedics had nearly had to pry Ford off of Stan to get him on a stretcher. At least they'd be nice enough to let him ride in the ambulance with him, for the fifteen minute ride to the closest hospital Gravity Falls had.

And now, he'd been here an hour, and no one had said a word to him about Stan. He asked the bored looking woman at the ER reception desk, but she just droned that she hadn't heard anything, and a doctor would be with him shortly.

So, Ford waited, and dealt with the flurry of emotions that whirled around inside him like the snow picking up again outside.

Every time he blinked, all he saw was that streak of red, and a wave of guilt and worry nearly consumed him. What if Stan died? Or what if he was already dead and they were just trying to think of a way to tell him? What if the last thing Ford ever said to him was that he was giving him a chance to do something worthwhile for once? Just thinking about those awful, acidic words leaving his mouth made him want to burst into ugly, childish sobs right there on the tile floor.

But he knew he couldn't. He had to stay strong. He couldn't let his guilt make him lose his head. He had to be the big brother here, just like always. Stanley needed him, so he'd be there for him. That's all there was to it. He just had to keep reminding himself that, when Stan was better, they were going to have a long talk. They'd work this out. Things would work out in the end. They had to.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, and for a brief, stupid moment, Ford thought it was Stan's hand, there to reassure him that he was fine, sorry to have scared him like that, but he was okay now.

He didn't know why he was so disappointed to turn around and find a middle-aged woman in a lab coat behind him, a stethoscope around her neck, and a clipboard tucked under her arm. A doctor. Her light brown hair was tied into a tight, sensible bun, and she gazed down at Ford through a small, square pair of glasses. Her dark green eyes, Ford was stunned to see, were full of compassion. You didn't see that in doctors her age these days, at least not in Ford's experience.

"Dr. Pines?" she asked, voice gentle, but definitely no-nonsense. She wanted Ford to know that she was someone he could trust.

"Yes," Ford replied.

"I'm Dr. Bergstrum. I'm the attending physician to your brother's case."

Ford shot out of his seat. "What's going on?" he demanded, a little more harshly than he intended. Dr. Bergstrum had instinctively reeled back from him, probably used to people reacting badly to news she gave them. "I'm sorry," Ford said sheepishly. "I just…I…"

"Don't worry about it," Dr. Bergstrum said, "I understand you're concerned."

"Is my brother alright?"

Dr. Bergstrum sighed a bit, and adjusted her glasses. Then, she simply said, "Dr. Pines, your brother has pneumonia."

Ford felt like cold water had been splashed in his face. That couldn't possibly be right. People like Stan didn't get pneumonia. Stan was young and strong and too scrappy for something that was supposed to be a disease that plagued old people and children too young to have proper immune response. His brother, who boxed and jogged and had to catch all their childhood diseases from Ford because he never got sick first, could not possibly have something like pneumonia. He would have laughed at the ridiculousness of it all if he had it in him.

"Normally," Dr. Bergstrum continued, seemingly unaware of Ford's look of total disbelief, "it wouldn't be much cause for concern. I'd give him some antibiotics and send him home with you to ride it out. But…"

"But what?" Ford clenched his hands to keep them from shaking.

"Your brother's immune system is very compromised. He's lucky that you were around to get him here in time, or he'd be in a lot of trouble."

Another pang of guilt shot through Ford like battery acid.

"I'm actually really worried about the state of his immune responses. I'm used to seeing this kind of deterioration in men three times his age," Dr. Bergstrum said. Her face was suddenly darkened with worry, as she asked, "Where exactly was your brother living before he lived with you, Dr. Pines?"

Ford almost blushed from embarrassment. "Well, he doesn't actually live with me," he said. "I…I don't actually know where he's been, but this is the first time we've seen each other in…well, in a while. He told me a little about what he's been up to, and, um, well, he didn't sound like he was doing to well on his own." The truth that Stan had thrown at him wanted to come up, churned in Ford's already anxious stomach like so much indigestion.

"I see," Dr. Bergstrum said, pulling out her clipboard and a pen, then scribbling something down. When she finished, she stared at it for a few seconds, then, as if preparing herself to deliver a particularly devastating blow, she inhaled deeply and let it out. Ford didn't even care if he was trembling now.

"Dr. Pines, I assume you've heard about the recent…medical crisis going on in the United States right now," she said, her voice getting low when she said the word "crisis". She even darted her eyes around a bit, like she was looking for eavesdroppers.

"What do you mean?" Ford asked. He hadn't really been keeping up with the news, for obvious reasons. Fiddleford occasionally tried to talk about it with him before the…incident, but he'd honestly never paid much attention.

"Last year, a rash of young men, around your brother's age, began complaining of flu-like symptoms, but no doctor could find any existing condition that matched whatever these men had. But the condition only began cropping up more and more, and it seemed to mostly stay within the demographic of young men with…certain persuasions." Dr. Bergstrum leaned forward a bit, as if letting Ford in on a secret to which only they were privy.

Now it was beginning to come back to Ford. Fiddleford telling him about all those poor men in California, getting so sick. The doctors were calling it HIV and AIDS, and how so many of them had died already. There was nothing they could do for them, poor things. Fiddleford had shaken his head at the time, his tender heart going out to those young men. "Ain't fair," he'd muttered. "I know my dad would say they brought it on themselves, what with their 'lifestyles' and all, but I say nobody should have to die like that, knowing there's no way to stop it. It just ain't fair."

Ford felt like he was going to throw up. He was only vaguely aware of Dr. Bergstrum still rattling off the history lesson regarding what could very well be killing his brother at this very minute. "Wait," he finally managed to grind out, cutting her off, "are you telling me my brother might have AIDS?"

Dr. Bergstrum cast a quick look around, her eyes wide with fear that someone might have heard him. Ford wanted to be angry, but Fiddleford had also mentioned that these young men who were diagnosed with this awful disease lost so much, even if they did manage to hold on longer than expected - their homes, their jobs, their families and friends. Their lives fell apart. Dr. Bergstrum seemed to understand that. Ford was instead quite grateful to her.

"Right now, we can only speculate," Dr. Bergstrum finally answered, lifting her glasses with her thumb and forefinger to pinch her nose. "But given what you've told me, there is a distinct possibility. I'll order some blood work, and we should know in about seventy-two hours."

Ford must have looked as shocked as he felt, because she quickly added, "I wish there was a way to find out sooner, but it takes us that long to be sure. Along with making him comfortable, it's the best we can do for now."

Ford felt the fight drain out of him within a matter of moments. He felt so heavy as he sat back down in his chair, the desire to fidget and demand answers gone completely. All he really felt like doing now was bursting into those ugly sobs from earlier. "Can I at least see him," he managed to say, his voice so soft that was afraid for a moment Dr. Bergstrum hadn't heard him.

"I'm sorry, but not until he's out of intensive care," she said, her eyes so full of sympathy. Ford wondered how she managed that when she'd just delivered what might be the death sentence of a twenty-eight-year-old man. "The most you can do for him right now is go home and get some rest. I could call you a cab."

To Ford, a fifteen minute ride home was the last thing he wanted to endure, almost less than going back to his house, just to be alone with his thoughts. "No," he said, not even caring that his voice cracked. "Thank you, but no. I'm staying here."

"That's fine too." She stuck her hands in his pockets, looking very much like she wanted to say more, comfort him in some way. Working in a hospital like this, near such a small town, she probably didn't see too many things this serious. Ford wondered if she even knew how to comfort a person in a situation like this.

Finally, she slumped a bit, and said, "You'll be the first to know if anything changes." Then she turned on her heels and walked away.

Ford was left alone, thoughts banging around in his mind like they were caught in a tornado. He felt numb, the weight of what he'd just heard crushing him down, cutting off the blood flow in his body.

AIDS. Stan might have AIDS. AIDS was a death sentence. Stan could be dying.

This was all his fault.

Ford felt tears well up in his eyes as he let that thought hit him like a speeding truck. This was all his fault. He'd done this to Stan. He should have done something to help him. He hadn't known about Stan's life through school and the six years he'd been out here, but that was no excuse. He was Stan's brother. He knew that what Filbrick had demanded of Stan was impossible.

Stan was right. All he did care about was himself.

For a moment, Ford let his hopeless sorrow engulf him. Shoving his hands up under his glasses, pushing them up to his forehead, he sobbed quietly and pitifully into his hands.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so sad in his life. Maybe when he and Stan were five, and an aunt, a sister of their father's, had died suddenly. Of course, as they matured, they realized it hadn't been very sudden at all. Aunt Francine had been battling cancer for the last several years. She hid her hair loss and explained away her bone-thinness so she wouldn't upset them, but every day had been a day closer to her death. And then one day it just happened. They hit a wall with her treatment, a woman who was only thirty-one was dead, and he and Stan hadn't understood why. They cried out of that fear, that desperation to understand why. Why had this happened? Why wasn't there anything anyone could do?

It was the only memory Ford had of his father holding them close to him, squeezing his boys tight, almost as if he were afraid he'd lose them if he didn't hold tight enough. Ford remembered an errant tear rolling from behind his father's ever-present sunglasses, dripping down his mustache.

He wished more than ever that his parents were here now.

Aunt Francine was happening all over again, only now it was his brother, his twin, who he'd shared a womb and a home with, shared a bond with that no one else could really seem to understand. Now, it was his brother who was three years younger than Aunt Francine had been, and that just made it seem all the more unfair. Now, this wasn't just some disease that cropped up because Stan's body turned against him. It was because he'd been living a hard, transient lifestyle, doing who knows what to get by, all because of a twin who abandoned him, threw him to the wolves and slammed the door in his face because of one mistake.

Stan was right about him all along.

Ford lost track of how long he cried. He just kept at it until there was nothing left anymore.

When he was finally finished, his face was hot and his nose was running something fierce. He wiped it on the back of his hand, and let out a shaky sigh.

He looked up, and noticed a clock on the wall, hanging above an archway that led down the hall, to patient rooms. It read 4:12 am.

He got to his feet and walked off. He knew there was a bank of payphones nearby, and he was sure he had enough change in his wallet to make a collect call.

It would be about a quarter past seven in Glass Shard Beach.

He really hoped Dad still got up early as a retiree.

When his father answered the phone, with a gruff "Hello?" like always, Ford almost wanted to hang up.

He must have turned around to go back to the waiting room in the ICU three times before he finally made it to a payphone. He hadn't really expected himself to get as far as dialing and getting through to his parents' home in New Jersey. And even as the dial tone droned in his ear, he hoped that maybe they were away from home for whatever reason, and the phone was just ringing into the void of their empty living room.

But now, his father was greeting him, sounding as unenthusiastic to talk on the phone as always, and Ford had no idea what he was going to say to him. He knew it had been a while, and his parents would both want answers. Answers he wasn't sure that he could give even if he thought they would understand them.

"Hello?" Filbrick said again, irritation creeping into his voice. "Ford? That you?"

"Uh, yeah, hi," Ford finally blurted out. "Sorry. I guess the snow here must be messing with the connection."

"S'alright," came the blunt reply. "Been a while, son. Your mother was starting to worry."

"Well, can you apologize for me when she wakes up?" Ford tried desperately to sound casual, but he could still hear his voice quavering a little.

"Sure." He heard a slurping noise. He must have caught Dad in the middle of his morning coffee, taken black, while he read the paper. Every morning, Ford and Stan woke up to find him that way, like he'd been there all night. It had been an in-joke between the boys for years that their dad didn't actually sleep. He was a solar-powered robot, like the ones Isaac Asimov wrote about, that was programmed to drink coffee and scowl.

Before Ford could continue the conversation, he heard papers rustling, and then Filbrick said, "Isn't it kind of early out there? By my watch, it can't even be daybreak yet."

Ford's stomach churned a little, but he said, "Yeah, it's just now four in the morning over here. I know it's early, but I just…ya know…I really wanted to talk to you. You were right. It has been a while."

He could practically feel his dad's brow scrunching up in scrutiny on the other end, his mustache tweaking up in a questioning manner. "You sound weird, boy," his father said. "Everything alright out there?"

Now was the moment of truth. Ford didn't know if he could do this. The receiver trembled in his hand as possible answers tumbled around in his head, all of them seeming like the wrong thing to say.

But then he remembered where he was, the news he'd just learned. And he knew exactly what he needed to start with. "Dad," he said slowly. "Stan's back."

Silence. Then the gentle rustle of paper as it was set down on the kitchen counter. If it hadn't been for that, he would have sworn his dad had hung up on him at the mere mention of his brother's name.

"What do you mean, Stan's back?"

"I mean he's here, in Oregon, with me."

"He wants money, doesn't he?"

"What?"

"Ford, you're a smart kid, always have been. So you of all people know that Stan is nothing but a leech."

It was the longest sentence Filbrick Pines had spoken about Stan in a long, long time, and Ford felt each word strike him like a well-aimed arrow. Filbrick took the silence as a cue to continue. "If he's come to you, you can bet it's just for money. You want my advice, kick him to the curb. Get him out of your life before he screws it up a second time. You can't trust that bum, son."

Ford fought every urge to shout in Stan's defense. Instead, he calmly said, "Dad, you don't understand. Stan is with me because I asked him to come. My assistant…" Ford hesitated, the image of Fiddleford laying still and wide-eyed in his arms after the incident with the portal flashing through his mind. "My assistant had to quit a project I'm working on because of health reasons. I needed help fast, so I asked Stan to come out. He's here because I asked him to be."

"Then you need to act like the smart guy you are, and use your common sense," Filbrick replied. Ford heard the newspaper being crumpled in the background. Filbrick must have been balling his fist out of frustration. "All that brother of yours has ever done is try to ride on your coattails. That's all he'll do now. A leopard doesn't change its spots, Ford."

"Dad, come on, be reasonable," Ford said, doing his best to sound calm and rational, like always. His brain had other plans, wanting nothing more than to spit and scream at his father about how Stan could be dying and didn't he even care?!

"It's been ten years," Ford continued. "Maybe Stan's done a little growing up. I mean, he really would have no other choice."

Filbrick made a scoffing noise, and all that managed to do was piss Ford off more. "Ford, listen," he said, in a tone that he probably assumed was wise. Ford thought it sounded horrendously condescending. "People like that idiot Stanley don't grow up. They just learn different tricks. You let him hang around you, and he'll drag you down with him. I'm only saying this because I don't want you to make a mistake. Just get away from him, alright?"

Ford saw red. After everything that had happened tonight, after all he'd done to get himself into this position, he was done playing the dutiful son. So he decided to drop the bomb. "Actually, Dad," he began, practically feeling the venom dripping from his voice, "the reason I called was because Stan's sick. The doctor says he has pneumonia. They also said he was lucky to be alive, because he has the immune system of an old man. Somehow, being forced from your home at a young age and barely being able to survive, let alone get a job and properly take care of yourself, is kinda bad for your health in the long run. Who knew, right?"

He heard Filbrick make an offended noise on the other end, and he knew that he was about to launch into a defense of his choices. How his decision to kick Stanley out had been justified because he'd ruined Ford's life and the family's chances of getting out of Glass Shard Beach and all the old, tired reasons that Ford was sick of hearing. He wasn't going to let Filbrick rationalize his way out of this.

"No. Don't you dare try and act like you did him a favor. Don't you fucking dare." He actually heard Filbrick's teeth click together as he shut his mouth in shock. Ford hardly ever swore, and certainly not to his father.

Right now, he didn't give a shit.

"Stan could be dying, Dad," Ford said. "Do you even care? One of your children is so sick from the lifestyle you forced on him that he could die. I can't even go be with him because he's in intensive care and the doctors won't let me in and he's all by himself and goddamit Dad, he could die!"

Ford didn't even care that several people nearby were now staring at him as he shouted into the phone, and had slammed his hand against the wall during his tirade. He didn't care that his heaving breaths were shaky, and the tears were stinging at his eyes again, welling up against his glasses and turning the world into a blurry mess. He debated whether or not he should keep going, tell his father what Dr. Bergstrum told him about what might be causing Stan's illness. He thought better of it at the last minute. It wasn't for sure yet, and just thinking about it already made Ford feel sick to his stomach. He didn't know if he could handle saying it out loud, to his father of all people.

A long silence stretched between the two men, only broken by the sound of Ford's heavy breaths. Filbrick seemed to be holding on to his silence stubbornly. Ford shoved a palm under his glasses to wipe away the tears, and said, "This isn't something you can just ignore, Dad. No matter what he did in the past, Stan's still your son. You can't, in all decency, just give up on him, because of one stupid mistake."

Filbrick still said nothing.

"You think he ruined my prospects, but he didn't," Ford continued. He was beginning to feel tired. "I mean, look where I am, look what I've accomplished. Nothing was ruined for me. The only person who got the shaft was Stan, and you and I finally need to accept responsibility for that. If there's one thing I've learned from this awful night, it's that I don't want to lose my brother over some mistake ten years ago. Do you really want to lose your son over it?"

Ford heard Filbrick's breath hitch ever so softly. Maybe he had gotten through to his father after all. Suddenly, Ford heard a feminine yawn and his mother's voice asking what all the hubbub was about, who was on the phone this early?

Ford started to speak again, but his dad cut him off, "I'll talk to you another time, Ford. Goodbye."

He heard his mother excitedly ask if Ford was on the phone, oh, couldn't she talk to him a minute before he hung up before the line went dead.

Ford's head started to throb as the dial tone droned away in his ear. He limply hung the receiver back in its cradle, leaning heavily against the wall.

He'd thought maybe that call would have made him feel better. Maybe he could have split this all-encompassing guilt he bore with his father, just so he would have to shoulder this enormous weight all on his own. But even if he had managed to get through Filbrick's thick head and make him feel an ounce of shame for casting aside his own flesh and blood, Ford didn't feel like he'd accomplished anything.

Stan was still in intensive care. He was still sick. He could still have AIDS. He could still be slowly dying. And it was still all Ford's fault.

He pushed himself off the wall, and started making his way back to the waiting room. He wanted nothing more than to lay his head down for a while, just let the pain slip away for a while, think about nothing, let himself be enveloped by a thick fog.

But when he rounded the corner, there was Dr. Bergstrum, her face still lined with sympathy, but Ford noticed a certain hope there. She walked up to meet him.

"We've stabilized your brother," she said simply. "You can see him now, if you want. He's still asleep, and we'd prefer him to wake up on his own, so please, try to be quiet."

Ford gave her a smile, despite the fact it made his face ache. "Thank you."

Dr. Bergstrum simply smiled, patted his shoulder, and motioned with her arm to the hall of patient rooms through the archway under the clock. "He's in the fourth room on the right."


	4. Chapter 4

The first thing Stan was aware of was how clean the air smelled around him. Almost too clean. Like, clean to the point of disinfected.

He hadn't slept anywhere that didn't at least have the faint smell of cigarettes and gas-station coffee for a long, long time. If he'd had the energy, he would have been suspicious.

As it was, he mostly just wanted to stay floating in this abyss of warm, black numbness for the rest of his natural life. He seemed to remember being in pain once, maybe even recently, but it all seemed to be smothered under a wet blanket in his mind. It was so distant, he didn't really see why he should care about it anymore. Just let him stay here. The exhaustion that permeated his life wasn't present here. There were no mobsters to pay back, no worries about where he'd find his next meal, and certainly no brothers who didn't give half a damn about him.

But the thought of Ford sent a pang through Stan that hurt more than any of the pain he'd previously felt. Hazy memories poked through the wet blanket of his mind, muffled and garbled, like bad dreams he couldn't wake up from. Ford telling him to get away from him, as far as possible, shoving that stupid book into his hands. Ford reminding Stan, once again, that he was a worthless waste of space, and he was only good for brute donkey work other, smarter, better people couldn't be fucked to do. Ford rushing to his side, somehow finding the capacity to care about him again, because his stooge was possibly hacking himself to death, and he couldn't have that. He couldn't kick his stupid twin to the curb until after he'd done him a favor.

Pain that was anything but physical pulsed through Stan. The numbness of his void couldn't stop it. Tears started stinging behind his eyelids, squirming their way out to fall, no matter what Stan had to say on the matter.

He cracked open his eyes, and two things happened. One, the tears started streaming. Two, he thought he was going blind, because of the sun gleaming through the open window, radiating off the freshly fallen snow outside.

No wonder the air smelled to clean. He was in a hospital. A much nicer hospital than he usually ended up in after the occasional boxing match for spare cash, but still a hospital.

His clothes were gone, replaced with one of those paper gown things, and it made him hope to God above that he still had his boxers on underneath it. They'd been kinda rank, so he doubted it, and even though he was not unaccustomed to strange people seeing his naked ass, a man was allowed some dignity, right?

Even though his neck ached something fierce, he scrubbed at his eyes, then turned his head a little, trying to get that damnable sunlight out of his face. He hated snow as much as anyone and couldn't wait for it all to melt, if only so he could get the hell out of dodge once they discharged him. He wasn't about to do what Ford wanted. Ford could stay here in this crummy state and rot with his stupid journal. Find another errand boy to do his dirty work, or do it himself. Stan was done. He washed his hands of the whole thing. If he had any saliva in his sand-dry mouth, he'd have spit between his fingers at the thought of his brother's name. It was a mannerism he'd seen his grandmother do several times, a Jewish custom to ward off curses and bad omens. Stan felt that was appropriate.

But goddamn, did the sun have to be so bright. It made his eyes feel like they were melting.

He finally got his head at an angle out of the harsh light (he was still left with spots, and he blinked rapidly to try and get rid of them), and noticed the monitors nearby. He was surprised the steady beeping hadn't drawn his attention earlier. It was one of those monitors with the flashing green lifeline, making sure you didn't have a heart attack or something. Or flatline, he guessed. He'd seen plenty of them in the movies, dramatic pictures where characters are on their last legs, only for the brilliant doctor to bring them back from the brink with those paddle things, screaming at the patient not to die on him. The line always evened out, and the doctor slumped dramatically, the adrenaline that caused him to scream heavenward gone.

Stan couldn't help but feel a little apprehensive that he was hooked up to one of those things now. How bad off had he been last night?

There was also an IV nearby, with a couple of bags hanging from it. One was clear liquid, the other was yellowish. Stan didn't really want to think about what either was pumping in or out of him, and turned his head away. Sure, it was back into the blinding sunlight, but the blinding sunlight didn't fill him with a horrible sense of unease.

He hated hospitals, always had, ever since he was small. Getting Stanley Pines to visit a doctor, even if it was for a routine check-up, was the worst nightmare his parents had endured from ages four to sixteen. He would kick and scream and cry and put up the strongest fight he could muster, because he did not want to go the doctor.

Maybe it was the fact he always associated hospitals with blood and gore and death. He heard stories at school of people coming into hospitals after car accidents and heart attacks and other random acts of nature, and not always coming out. Hospitals were not places you went to feel safe, no matter what everyone told you about being able to trust your family doctor.

There wasn't enough disinfectant in this world to mask the scent of death in a hospital, and it made Stan shudder.

Ugh, he needed to stop thinking about this. He wasn't dead. He was fine. Sure, he must have been in a pretty bad way to warrant coming here, but hey, at least he was opening his eyes and moving his head. That counted for something, right? And yeah, breathing was still painful, and his head still ached, and he was still cold, but the doctors would take care of that. Even though he hated hospitals with every fiber of his being, he wasn't gonna deny that they were sometimes competent at their jobs. Sometimes.

Uuuuuuugh!

Movement out of the corner of his eye, on his right, caught Stan's attention, and he shifted his aching neck in that direction. When he saw Ford, completely conked out in a chair, practically falling out, he was…well, surprised wasn't really the right word. Incredulous, he guessed, was better. Ford had once told him that basically meant, "Holy shit, what the actual fuck is this, I can't believe it."

Yeah, that was much better.

He supposed he shouldn't have been so shocked to see his brother there. After all, how else would he have gotten to the hospital if it weren't for Ford. He must have either driven him here, or called an ambulance. Stan's money was on ambulance. He just couldn't picture his brother putting forth enough effort to drag him to the car and get him here. It's not like he thought Stan was worth it.

But had Ford actually stayed all night? Maybe it was too late at night when they got here (Stan didn't rightly remember what time he'd lost his ability to breathe) and Ford figured it was just smarter to stay here, make sure Stan didn't die a horrible, agonizing death, before ditching him to go back to his cabin in the woods. Since Stan had made it clear he wasn't going to help Ford, he probably had to think of some other way to get rid of his stupid journal. Maybe flip through his nerdy rolodex and find another stooge willing to go to the ends of the earth for him.

Stan wanted to cling to his anger over the whole situation. It seemed reasonable - having the one dream that kept you going for ten years dashed into the dirt by the cold, apathetic boot heel of reality. Realizing that the brother who you thought was your only friend in the world really didn't care about you, and only saw you as a tool to his own ends. Coming to the conclusion that you really were all alone in the world, and it would be better if you just didn't exist.

Yes, that all seemed like a perfectly good reason to be angry.

And yet Stan just couldn't muster up the energy for it anymore. If nothing else, he felt so very, very empty.

His dreams had been childish and stupid.

His brother hated him and always would.

He was all alone.

Tears stung at his eyes again, but Stan didn't feel sad. It was worse than that. He felt nothing.

There had been many times in his twenty-eight years of life when he contemplated suicide. He always managed to come up with some reason not to jump off a bridge or step into traffic or maybe take a handful too many of the pills from the orange prescription bottles Rick gave him after a particularly brutal boxing match, but never mentioned where they came from.

Every time he'd gotten desperate enough to consider it, some stupid reason came to him, and he shoved the dangerous thoughts back into the dark parts of his mind where they belonged.

Now, there didn't seem to be any reasons, and he was too tired to keep pushing.

He swallowed hard and thick, the act painful on his sandpaper throat. The tears started streaming again, and Stan made no attempt to wipe them away.

Even as the voice of his father nagged away at him for crying (you're almost thirty for God's sake, and you can't even deal with a few lumps like a man, Jesus, you are a screw up), Stan let the tears fall. That awful fucking voice had chased away many tears in his past. When things had gotten so bad that Stan couldn't help but weep like an infant, the biting, scowling voice of Filbrick Pines rang in his ears, telling him to quit being such a baby and get off his ass and fix things. He might as well do something right with his life.

Now, the voice just droned away like a desktop fan, and Stan didn't care.

He'd never wanted more in his life to die.

He didn't understand why, but the finality, the bluntness of that thought scared him shitless. And that just made him cry harder. He clapped a hand over his mouth so he wouldn't wake Ford, but it did little to quiet the sounds. Sniffles and hiccups and tiny sobs still escaped. He sounded pathetic, and probably looked like a giant moron, but he kept on. He couldn't find it in himself to do anything but cry.

When he saw Ford shift in his chair out of the corner of his eye, he tried to calm down a bit. He didn't want his brother to see him like this. He knew it would only get him rolled eyes and mumbled comments about Stan being a wimp about this. So he had to go to the doctor. Was that any reason to cry, Stanley? He could practically hear the condescension.

Ford let out a tired grunt, stretching a little. Probably wasn't very comfortable sitting up in chair all night long. He muttered a slurred, "Stanley…"

Stan didn't respond. He was too busy trying to stop the tears. He kicked himself for being weak enough to get all weepy. He was never going to hear the end of it.

Ford shoved a hand under his glasses, rubbing sleep out of his eyes, and then repeated Stan's name, this time a bit more coherently.

God, he wished Ford weren't here. Why did he insist on torturing him like this, sticking around and pretending he cared? Was it some kind of begrudged sense of duty that kept Ford here? Or did he get some kind of sick satisfaction at the spectacular mess than was Stan's life? Thinking to himself, man, I'm glad I'm not that stupid. This could very easily have been me! Dodged a bullet there, winning that genetic lottery.

A pained sob escaped Stan. That seemed to wake Ford up completely, and he was by Stan's side faster than a bullet. He practically knocked the chair over in his attempt to get to the edge of the bed.

He immediately started asking questions, if Stan was alright, did he need something, was he in any pain? When Stan didn't answer him, still with his hand firmly over his mouth, willing his tears to dry up so he could at least maintain some dignity, Ford had the audacity to put his arm around his twin's shoulder, like he was offering him support. He spoke in a voice he probably thought sounded soothing. It made Stan feel sick. "Stan, it's okay," he said. He even gave Stan's shoulder a squeeze. "You're okay. I'm right here. You don't have to be upset."

This was infinitely worse than Ford coming down on him for crying. Ford trying to comfort him, like he really did care, like what had transpired between them the night before hadn't happened. Like a lifetime of being forgotten hadn't happened. Stan's stomach lurched as anger once again boiled through him. This fake sympathy routine had lost its sway. Stan was officially done with this.

With as much strength as he could bring to bear in his achy body, Stan practically threw Ford's arm off his shoulders. Then, he gave his brother a powerful shove, sending him stumbling backwards, almost causing him to fall and land flat on his ass. Stan was actually a little disappointed when Ford managed to catch himself on the chair he'd recently vacated and right himself.

When he'd regained his balance, Ford looked up at him like a kicked kitten. "Stanley," he said, sounding wounded. "What was that for?"

"What the hell do you think you're doing here," Stan spat, his eyes never leaving Ford. He hoped that they were burning with rage and hurt. He hoped Ford could see it clear as day.

"Stan," Ford said, taking a tentative step forward, "you're sick. You just got out of intensive care a few hours ago. Where else would I be?"

Stan rolled his eyes, and said, "Oh, I don't know. Where were you when I got sick over the last ten years? I sure as hell don't remember you coming to visit then. In fact, what makes you even think I would want you to be here?!"

If at all possible, Ford looked even more hurt by the words. Good. Let him finally understand what a lousy brother and overall human being he was. Let it really sink in. He'd had this coming for a long time. "Stan," Ford said weakly. "You don't…you don't actually mean that."

"Right, I'm in a real joking mood," Stan shouted back. "You think this one night is gonna make up for ten years? All the shit I went through is just magically gonna be okay now? Well, that's not how it's gonna be, Ford!"

Ford opened his mouth hesitantly, to defend himself, but Stan cut him off. "I don't want your damn excuses," he said. "I don't wanna hear about how you've been through so much too, how you couldn't have possibly known what I was going through on my own. But hey, it's not like any of what I went through matters, right? I just brought it on myself, right? I am the screw-up whose never done anything worthwhile in his life. You said so yourself. Obviously, I deserved all this for costing you your freaking dream school."

Stan stopped for a moment, and was surprised when Ford said nothing. He was just staring at the floor, shame written all over his face. It gave Stan a vengeful satisfaction to know he'd at least struck a blow to Ford's pride. It spurred him on. "But you never even stopped to think about why I might have been upset about my brother and my only friend leaving me. You were just so eager to pack up and get out of my life. You just let people say that I was gonna end up stuck in that stupid town forever, and never amount to anything…" Stan felt tears welling up again, this time hot with the ferocious anger that coursed through him, a lifetime of pain finally erupting. "How the hell am I supposed to believe, after all that, after ten years of you pretending like I didn't even exist, after dragging me out here just to fix your mistakes, that you actually care about me?!"

Ford looked like Stan had punched him directly in the gut. Maybe, in a way, Stan had.

Stan felt his rage dissipate. It was a funny emotion like that. It only took minutes to explode with unimaginable intensity, and leave permanent damage in its wake.

That cold feeling of hopelessness crept back in to fill the gap left in his anger's wake. "You left me behind, you jerk," Stan said, his voice sounding so pathetically small, even to his own ears. "It was supposed to be us forever. You ruined my life."

If at all possible, Ford shrank even more. He said, "Stan, I -"

"No," Stan said, finally turning his head slowly away from his twin. "Just get out. I don't want you here. Get out and go back to your stupid cabin with your stupid book and leave me alone."

Ford started to reach out a hand towards his twin. Stan swore up and down to himself, that if his brother laid a hand on him, things were gonna get ugly fast. He didn't care how awful he felt, how sore and weak his muscles were. Ford would regret touching him.

But Ford seemed to think better of it quickly. His hand dropped uselessly by his side, and, with one last look up at Stan, Ford turned around and walked out of the room. Within seconds, he was gone.

Stan laid back down in his lonely hospital bed and wept like a child.

-  
Ford at least made it back to the waiting room before his legs decided to give out. He managed to fall back against a wall, and slid his back down it until he was sitting on the floor. He pulled his knees up to his chin, and buried his face in them. His hot breath fogged his glasses, so he yanked them off his face and shoved them in his pocket.

He'd fucked up beyond all reason.

He'd hoped that he could somehow make this up to Stan. Make everything that'd happened over the last ten years up to Stan. Finally be there for him. But he'd already ruined it.

He ran his fingers through his hair, actually grabbing up two clumps in them and yanking as hard as he could. It hurt, but he deserved to feel pain.

Stan was right. He was right about everything.

Memories of three months, ago tripped through his mind, and he let them. That was when Fiddleford had nearly been pulled into Bill's dimension, only saved because Ford had managed to grab hold of the rope that had twined itself around his assistant's foot and pull him back. It'd taken about twenty minutes to revive his assistant, gently shaking his shoulder and patting his cheek and saying his name. And even then, Fiddleford had…not been all there. He spoke gibberish. "When gravity falls, and earth becomes sky, beware the beast with just one eye," he said cryptically.

Knowing what he knew now, those words sent shivers down Ford's spine.

He hadn't heard from Fiddleford since that night. He'd quit the project and walked out, and Ford didn't know where to. He'd quickly become entrenched in the escalating situation with Bill. Sleep deprivation and the vague dread that came from feeling like you were losing your mind made you forget about most other important things, as Ford had discovered.

Sometimes he told himself that Fiddleford had just gone back to California, obviously. He was probably dealing with his soon-to-be-ex-wife. Only six months before Ford called him out to Oregon, Emma had walked out on him, taking their three-year-old son with her. Fiddleford had occasionally mentioned about the divorce and custody papers he was served less than three weeks later, trying desperately to keep the hurt out of his voice. At the time, the project had been a welcome distraction for the young mechanic. Ford couldn't even begin to imagine how this all was making him feel, despite the sunny disposition Fiddleford attempted to maintain.

Maybe Fiddleford was back in California. Maybe he wasn't. Ford didn't know. He'd never bothered to find out.

So that was two people who Ford had chucked to the side, possibly hurt beyond any chance of helping. And he hadn't even cared at the time. At the time, Stan had brought his misfortune on himself, and Fiddleford just couldn't handle the magnitude of what they were doing. He was no better than his father. Hell, he was worse.

He had to get out of here. Stan had made it abundantly clear that he didn't want him here, so he saw no reason to stay. It wasn't like he'd be doing Stan any good by being here. All he did was remind his brother of ten years of heartache.

He fished his glasses out of his pocket, and slowly, laboriously, got to his feet. He headed back in the direction of the payphones. He'd call a cab to take him back to his house.

After all, monsters like him deserved to hide away in the dark, away from anyone else they might hurt.

There weren't any clocks in this white little room, so Stan didn't know how much time had passed between Ford leaving and this doctor lady coming in. It had to have been at least an hour. The blinding light from the snow outside had lessened a bit when the sun moved.

He'd cried for most of that block of time. Long and hard, he'd sobbed into his hands, occasionally crying out in ways that reminded him of dying animals. The gruff, nagging voice that usually accompanied the times he cried was strangely absent. Maybe it had given up as wholly as Stan had.

He still hastily wiped his eyes when the lady doctor came in. At least, that was who Stan assumed she was. Most of the doctors he'd dealt with throughout his life had been pot-bellied old men with, at the very least, salt and pepper hair and tired faces that bespoke long nights and compassion that had long since run-dry. If they were doctors he'd encountered in the last ten years of his life, they typically didn't look anywhere near as clean and put-together as the slender, careworn woman that stood before him.

Stan guessed she was forty or so, noticing the fledgling gray streaks dusting her temples. She made no attempt to hide them, he realized. He liked that. He always thought it was much nicer when ladies aged with dignity, rather than trying to dye and pluck and firm in an attempt to be young and desirable again. He didn't even catch any signs of make-up on her, and ever since his year and a half stint in Vegas, and spending so much time around Yolanda, he was pretty keen to even the subtlest hints of a foundation, rouge, and powder.

He'd met Yolanda about two weeks after ending up in Las Vegas, after he fell in with Tony and his…business. It'd been promising - show a few questioning old creeps a good time, maybe do some weird stuff for their "exploration" , as Tony had so eloquently put it, and keep forty percent of the $150 dollars they paid upfront at the desk. Stan even got to check the guys out before he ever even took off his pants. Make sure nothing was oozing that shouldn't be, or whatever. He saw something like that, he could kick them to the curb, maybe recommend a good doctor with a reputation for discretion.

Tony had been one of the better brothel owners in Vegas, honestly.

Yolanda had been a pretty good friend to him during those two years. She taught him everything he'd ever needed to know about cleaning himself up, attracting the high rollers, guys looking for a really good time and willing to throw around their money with abandon to make it happen, all while their wives were none the wiser. Stan had never given any thought to blending or contouring or any of the frankly grueling work that went into applying make-up. He had a whole newfound respect for women who could do it and make it look like they weren't wearing any make-up at all. The "natural look", Yolanda had called that, even though she'd always preferred sapphire eye shadow and rose-red lips that left stains all over her "friends".

Yolanda would have looked at doctor lady and nodded her head in beaming approval. "Either she's not wearing any at all," she'd have said, in that smoky, lighted accented voice of hers that made men practically throw their winnings at her, "or she's better at that than I am. Either way, more power to her. Women gots to do what makes them feel like women, ya know?"

He needed to look Yolanda up again. Maybe when he got out of the hospital, he'd go back to Vegas. Maybe get ahold of Tony too. See if he could get back in the game. It hadn't been such a bad life. Not at all.

At least the people using him in Vegas were upfront about their intentions.

Suddenly, doctor lady was talking, and Stan realized he hadn't heard at least half of what she's just said. "…Dr. Bergstrum, and I'm the doctor whose been monitoring your case," she said. "You gave us all quite a scare earlier." She gave him a small, tired smile.

"Yeah, uh, sorry about that," Stan said. Was Dr. Bergstrum her name, or some other doctor here? Oh man, what the heck had she been talking about? Why wasn't he listening instead of daydreaming about his days as a prostitute? Jeez…

The doctor lady who may have been Dr. Bergstrum chuckled a little, and said, "There's no need to apologize. It happens. It's actually quite lucky you were with your brother when this happened. If you were by yourself, I shudder to think what might have happened."

At the mention of his brother, any embarrassment Stan might have felt about not getting her name evaporated. He just felt small and lonely again, with that familiar feeling of desperately wanting to cry welling up in his chest. He fought it hard. He wasn't going to let that bastard cause him anymore pain. He was tired of suffering because of someone who wasn't worth the energy.

He must not have done a very good job concealing the hurt, however, because the doctor lady suddenly looked very concerned. "Are you alright," she asked. "You look upset. Can I get anything for you?"

"No," Stan said quickly. "I'm okay. Just fine. Well, ya know, aside from the whole 'hospital' thing. But yeah, other than that…" he trailed off with a weak, unconvincing laugh.

Fortunately for him, the doctor lady didn't push him. She just pulled her clipboard out from under her arm after giving him one more glance. Stan knew that glance quite well. It was the glance of a mother who knew her teenager was going through some stuff, but she didn't want to keep pushing because that'd just close them off more. So she'd just let it slide. She instead flipped through a few of the pages on her clipboard until she found the page she wanted.

She sat down in the chair that Ford had been sitting in, and then looked up. Her eyes looked strange to Stan. She looked almost…sad. He really shouldn't have been all that surprised. Being a doctor probably entailed telling people a lot of bad news - dead relatives, ill children, bills people couldn't hope to pay. But it still unsettled him. Had she just come from another patient in a situation that rattled her? Or, worse, was there something about his case that rattled her?

"Now then," she said, her voice stern, "you just woke up from a very severe case of pneumonia, Mr. Pines. I think you're over the worst of it, especially now that we've got you on an antibiotics regime. We've been doing it intravenously since you were admitted, but when you're released, we'll give you some pills to take at home. And make sure you do the whole regime. I cannot stress that enough. I don't care if you start feeling better before you're done. You take every single one of those pills, otherwise I'll come looking for you and glare at you menacingly. Got it?"

Stan couldn't help but laugh. "Yes, ma'am," he said.

"Good, because my children have told me that my glares are the worst thing in the world," she replied. The sternness never left her voice "I would hate to have to subject a nice guy like you to one. It'd probably scar you for life."

Stan liked this lady doctor. She was weird.

But then that look of sad worry came back, and so did Stan's feeling of unease. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly before she said, "I discussed this with your brother earlier, and I don't know if you two talked about it, but I do have a few concerns about this. Your brother tells me you were…a bit of a wanderer these last few years."

Stan rolled his eyes. He bet Ford just straight up told her he'd been a homeless bum. Wouldn't put it past him. "Yeah, I was living out of my damn car. So what?" He hadn't meant to be so short with her. She was nice, and didn't deserve that kind of treatment. Well, he could place the blame entirely on Ford's stupid head for putting him in a bad mood.

"Well, since he didn't actually know, can I ask exactly what you've been up to?" she asked.

"What do you mean, what I've been up to? You mean other than trying not to starve?"

She looked a little guilty, but pressed on anyway, "Let me be perfectly frank, Mr. Pines. Can you tell me about your sexual history?"

"What?!" Stan didn't even care that he'd practically shouted. "What the hell does that have to do with anything?" He quickly added, "Not that it's any of your damn business what I did under the sheets."

She sighed again, and said, "Look, I know this is embarrassing, but I promise, I won't judge. I don't have it in me. The only reason I want to know is to help you in your treatment."

"Lady, if knowing who I've slept with is gonna help me get over pneumonia, I think I need to call 60 Minutes, because you are running one fucked up hospital here."

"Mr. Pines, that's not what I meant," she said, looking a little frustrated. Stan wondered if that was aimed at him, or herself.

"Yeah, well, what did you mean, doc?" He wasn't really expecting an answer. He didn't even think there was a good answer, outside of her being some kind of weird pervert.

But then she said, "You've heard about AIDS, haven't you?"

Stan stopped short. AIDS. That was that disease killing people all over the damn country. Of course he'd heard about it. When he'd spent a few months in New York last year, he'd seen the poor bastards who were diagnosed with it. In a matter of weeks, they turned into husks of their former selves - bone thin, weak and listless, crumbling away like pillars of sand repeatedly hit by merciless ocean waves. The worst part was that it wasn't the AIDS that killed them. It was the stuff that wreaked havoc on their defenseless bodies because of the AIDS - simple diseases that most people would be able to lick in a few days turned into battles of life and death. Things like tuberculosis, meningitis, and…

Oh God. Pneumonia. That was the one you heard the most often.

Oh dear sweet God.

"Mr. Pines?" The doctor lady had gotten up from her chair and was gently shaking his shoulder. "Are you alright? Stan? Stan, say something."

His stomach churned. A small part of him found this all ironic. When he'd told off Ford, nothing sounded sweeter to him than dying, right there at that moment, if only everything would stop hurting. Now, he was being handed a death sentence, and he was so very afraid. His stomach churned again, and this time, it was loud enough for the doctor lady to hear it. She was, luckily, quick to realize what that meant. She reached down, snatched up a nearby waste basket, and shoved it into Stan's arms. She took a few steps back just in time for him to start retching, bringing up the miniscule amount of food that he'd eaten for the past few days, and raw stomach acid after. Even after he could bring up nothing else, he sat there, dry heaving for several minutes.

When it was all over, he laid his head again the rim of the waste basket and sobbed. They were weak and tinny thanks to the abuse he'd just heaped on his throat, but still they came, and Stan let them, not caring how much they hurt.

He noticed doctor lady reach into her pocket and pull out a pair of rubber gloves. She snapped them into place, came over, and took the soiled waste basket away. Then she pressed the call button near his head, alerting some poor nurse to come in for clean up. Then she turned her attention back to him, "Stan, you need to calm down," she said. Her voice was so gentle, and she'd even switched to his first name. It made him think of Mom again. "Nothing is certain yet. I know this is frightening to deal with, but I promise you, whatever happens, you won't have to go through this on your own."

Stan wanted to tell her she didn't know how wrong she was. This really was the end for him.

"We took some blood when we started to suspect HIV. It'll take seventy-two hours for the results of your test to come in, and I'd like you to stay here during that time. Okay? I know being stuck here is awful, but I really think it'd be best. You immune responses are already in pretty poor shape, and despite how much better you're doing, you're still sick. Until we have some definitive answers, I don't want you taking a turn for the worse."

Stan nodded numbly, even though the words rang totally hollow in his mid. All that went through his mind now was that he was going to die.

"Would you like me to go find your brother for you?" The doctor was grabbing at straws here, trying to cheer him up a little. Stan would have appreciated it if it had been anyone else but him in this hospital bed. "I didn't see him out in the waiting room, but I could find him and tell him you need him."

Stan shifted his gaze up to her. Slowly, flatly, he said, "I don't need him. Just go. I wanna go back to sleep."

The doctor lady looked at him like she was fighting every urge in her body to hug him. Stan didn't blame her for not doing it. He might as well get used to never having anyone touch him ever again. Or ever want to be around him.

As she started to leave, Stan found himself speaking up one more time. "Before you go, what time is it?" He almost couldn't believe the tiny, scared-rabbit voice that filled the empty space was his own.

The doctor lady looked at her watch, an elegant silver thing that was clamped tightly around a thin wrist, and said, "9:48."

"Okay," he replied. "Thanks."

After another moment's hesitation, she left.

Stan looked back out the window, not really looking at the sun or the snow or the bright blue winter sky.

He made a note - 9:48 am, January 10, 1982. That was the day he was going to start dying.


	5. Chapter 5

Ford scrubbed furiously at the bowl submerged in the hot, soapy water in the sink. He'd probably gotten the last traces of food off of it several seconds ago, but he didn't make much of an effort to stop himself.

There were only two other dishes in the sink, anyway. He needed to keep his mind occupied, and if he ran out of dishes to wash too quickly, his thoughts would start wondering again.

He'd finally made it home from the hospital around 9:30. He probably would have gotten there sooner, but the cab driver had offhandedly mentioned something about the snow slowing everything down. The fact that said snow was well on its way to melting in the bright early morning sun did nothing to waver the excuse. Ford didn't honestly care. He just had to get away from the hospital.

He'd ignored most of the driver's questions and attempts at small talk - average things about his job, who he was seeing at the hospital, and, after Ford had mumbled his address, if he really was that science guy who lived in that spooky cabin in the woods, on Gopher Road. Ford had almost chuckled at the nervousness that crept into the man's voice.

Ford hadn't really been in town much since he moved here six years ago. He only went out for grocery shopping when he remembered, and when Fiddleford had been living with him, that job had fallen on to him, since he tended to remember that they needed food more than every other day. He wasn't really surprised that the townspeople thought of him as an enigma, some kind of mad scientist doing horrific acts against nature in his ominous castle on the hill. It wasn't like they were far off about the "acts against nature" part.

What had made it a bit more annoying was that the cab driver refused to drive any closer than twenty yards away from his front door. He'd mumbled something about not wanting to go anywhere near "that mumbo-jumbo". Ford had rolled his eyes, tossed some cash in the driver's direction, told him to keep the change, and got out to walk the rest of the way. He supposed, since the presence of Bill still hung around the house like a persistent fog, it would be better for other people to stay away anyway.

Not to mention he frequently had to chase gnomes out of his trash, and those little bastards tended to get bitey when you came between them and food.

When he'd come in the front door, the silence of the place nearly buried him alive. He shut the front door, and the sounds of the world outside - chirping birds, icicles jingling merrily on trees, the gentle wind that blew past his ears - it all ceased, as if he'd stepped into his own private void.

And it'd been so cold when he stepped in. He'd checked the thermostat, and then the vents. They blew hot air out at him. But still, the cold persisted. It settled deep, and raised the hair on the back of his neck and arms. It still lingered now, even as he pulled his hands out of the steaming water in his sink, to rinse the suds off the bowl. He didn't have a dish drying rack anymore (he'd broken it and three of his plates after an accident trying to load his crossbow on two hours sleep), so he set the bowl upside down to dry on a dish towel he'd spread over the countertop. Then he grabbed up the second bowl and dunked it into the water.

He chanced a glance at the clock on the kitchen wall. It was almost noon. He'd been finding odds and ends projects to keep him distracted for almost four hours.

His father always said physical labor was good to drive out the cold. Of course, that might have also just been his way of convincing Stan and Ford to shovel the walk in front of their pawnshop so he didn't have to, but Ford had keenly ignored that thought. He instead set to work cleaning and reorganizing the notes that littered his desk in the living room. He couldn't believe he'd let things get this bad. He shuffled things around for a good half hour before he had everything stacked and filed the way he liked it. He decided to save putting it back in its proper place for later, mostly because he'd started noticing how dusty everything was.

So, he fished an old t-shirt and some furniture polish out from beneath the sink and wiped down every wooden surface he came across until it gleamed in lemon-scented radiance. When he'd gone to put the furniture polish back under the sink, he noticed that his kitchen table was disgusting. Coffee stains and spilled food and various sticky patches Ford cared not to think about glared at him with the kind of resounding judgment his grandma Pines bestowed upon his mother when she tasted her brisket, and passively said it was a little dry, not at all like hers.

He rolled up his sleeves, traded his polish for a dish rag and a bucket of soapy water, and scrubbed down the table until his elbows ached and he could see his own haggard face shining back at him. When he'd dumped the water out, he noticed the two bowls and the saucepan he'd used to heat up the soup he and Stan had shared the day before. It seemed silly to just let them sit there. So he filled the sink with water and a far more generous dollop of soap than he supposed he needed, and started scrubbing with the ancient scour pad that had practically been glued to the corner of the sink closest to the wall.

This had been his routine for the last four hours. Whenever he was nearing the end of a task, a far-off, frightened part of his mind warned him to find something else. There were bad thoughts waiting for him if he stopped. Thoughts of the dream demon that may or may not still be here, watching him, laughing at his feeble attempts to stop him. Thoughts of the end of the world. Thoughts of the brother he'd left all alone in a hospital, possibly fighting a deadly disease that might kill him.

No, would kill him. That was another thing that had upset Fiddleford so much when he heard more news about the AIDS crisis. It killed quickly, but painfully. Apparently, 121 young men were documented to have died from the disease by the end of last year, simply because a diagnosis came too late. Most of the ones that hadn't were only given about three to five years to live, and that was if they were lucky and received medical treatment. Many didn't, or couldn't, for whatever reason.

Ford felt a crushing weight on his chest, while thoughts of Stan getting rail-thin and sick flashed through his mind. The thought that Stan would become one of those statistics made breathing difficult. He couldn't picture his brother, the one who railed against every doctor visit and check up like a bat out of hell, enduring treatment after treatment, just to prolong his suffering a little bit longer. And, Ford thought bitterly, its not like anyone had given him a reason to hang on. Stan wouldn't waste his time or money with -

The thought of money made Ford stop short. How was Stan going to afford all this? From what Ford understood, Stan had no money, no job, not even a permanent residence, let alone anything resembling insurance. Ford hadn't even thought about how his brother was going to pay for the room, the tests, the procedures. He should have thought of that before calling the ambulance.

He buried his face in his still-wet hand, lamenting the fact he'd, once again, screwed Stan over. He was so very close to bursting into tears again that he almost didn't hear the knock at the door.

But he did, and the sudden sound nearly made him lose his grip on the bowl he realized he was clutching to his shirt like a stuffed toy. As he set it back in the soapy water, he realized it'd left a huge, wet ring, right on his chest. He'd huffed in frustration as whoever was at the door knocked again, a little harder this time.

Whatever. It was only water.

He trumped to the door, grabbed the knob, and opened it only an inch, enough to peek out. Standing on his front porch, in a long, black, and very warm looking coat, was Dr. Bergstrum. Her hands were stuffed in the coat's pockets, and her professional bun was tucked up under a smart knitted black cap. She noticed the door opening ever so slightly, and bent down a bit to look Ford in the eye, "Dr. Pines," she said, hopefully, "is that you? It's Dr. Bergstrum, from the hospital."

Ford wanted to slam the door shut, lock it, and go hide in his bedroom for the next few days. She'd obviously come here to tell him something terrible had happened to Stan while he was gone. He'd taken a turn for the worse. He really did have AIDS, they just hadn't been fast enough to diagnose it, so he was dead. Or, worst of all, Stan had decided not to wait till it killed him. He'd helped the process along. The very thought that his brother might have done something that drastic made Ford's stomach turn.

As if reading his mind, Dr. Bergstrum said, "Nothing's wrong with your brother, if that's what you're worried about. At least not physically. That's why I'm here. I really feel like we need to talk."

For a moment, Ford wondered who this woman thought she was. She wasn't some relative or even a family friend. She was a near stranger, only connected to him because she was his brother's doctor. Where did she get off saying they needed to have a heart to heart?

But then he looked up at her face again from his crack in the door, and saw that motherly entreaty etched so lovingly on her face. Please, it said, I only want to talk. I only want to help. It was so hard to resist a look that reminded him so much of his own mother.

With a sigh, Ford stepped back, opening the door the rest of the way. Dr. Bergstrum quickly shuffled in, stomping her feet on the mat just inside to avoiding making his floor a damp mess of melted snow. "Thanks," she said briskly. She pulled the hat from her head and stuffed it in a pocket. Her hands were covered by supple leather gloves, and she started peeling them off. "I thought you were going to leave me out there to freeze for a minute."

"Sorry," Ford mumbled. "I've been…I've been a little off this morning. Can I take your coat?"

"Understandable," she replied. In one liquid motion, she shucked off her coat and handed it to Ford. Once he had it in his hand, he realized he didn't actually know where to put it. He didn't have a coat closet in the main room. He just typically threw his off wherever he remembered to take it off and tossed it to the floor. Then he remembered the skeleton in the living room. There were some chairs there, actually ready to accommodate people now that he'd moved all the papers off them.

He said, "You said you wanted to talk. We can sit down in here." He motioned towards the living room, and was pleased when she smiled, nodded, and followed after him.

Ford was glad he'd decided to clean. He watched as Dr. Bergstrum looked around approvingly, taking in the various oddities he'd collected in this room. She didn't seem to hold the same kind of fear the townsfolk did of him and his research. She seemed downright fascinated by it.

He hung her coat up on his hanging skeleton, covering its eyes. That made him feel a bit more at ease. "So…" he began. Dr. Bergstrum wasn't actually looking at him as he talked, so he cleared his throat a little. She suddenly seemed to remember where she was.

"Sorry," she said, looking a little embarrassed. "I didn't think it was the proper time to say it when we first met, but I think the work you do out here is very interesting. You hear people talking in town about weird lights and stuff coming from this house, and all the strange things they claim happen up here, and they expect you to be all aghast about it. Not me though. I've always known there was something weird about this place. Ever since I moved here as a kid."

Ford couldn't help but smile. His research hadn't exactly been met with unanimous approval when he'd presented it to the grant committee. Many of the stuffy old men on the board thought he was chasing fairy tales, and it would be a waste of funds. He was sure that he was still the butt of many jokes among them for his "crackpot" theories. Even after he'd tried explaining to his parents what he was out here to do, they hadn't really understood. Sure, they'd been supportive about it, but Ford could tell they thought it was as kooky as those board members. Hearing someone as obviously well-educated as Dr. Bergstrum commend him on his life's work, to really get the reason he was so drawn here, gave him the tiniest boost of pride.

Dr. Bergstrum gave her head a small shake, and she was suddenly serious. "But I didn't come out here to chat about the paranormal. Much as I'd like to." Ford didn't miss the small smile that briefly flickered across her face. "I actually came here to talk to you about Stan. I realize this is way out of line, but my shift ended fifteen minutes ago. We can pretend this is a visit between acquaintances rather than from your brother's doctor."

Ford felt cold all over again. The last thing he wanted to talk about what Stan. He'd spent four hours acting like a goddamn maid to avoid even thinking about Stan.

But Dr. Bergstrum would not be deterred. "I was actually kind of surprised when I didn't find you at the hospital before I left. I figured Stan had sent you back here to rest, since you seemed pretty intent on staying with him." She met his eyes, and he must have looked as desperately upset as he felt, because she said quietly, "I figured wrong, I guess. What happened, Dr. Pines?"

Part of Stan wished she would just go away. This was none of her business. She had no right to ask. But still…she just had this air about her that made him feel so comfortable. Maybe it was just the fact that, despite trying to run himself ragged in an effort not to think about all he had to think about, Ford was just too exhausted to keep up his defenses anymore, even to a perfect stranger like her. Maybe it was because he hadn't had anyone to really talk to over the course of the last three months, and his brain was finally snapping under the pressure. Either way, he sighed, and simply said, "We fought."

Dr. Bergstrum merely nodded, waiting for more.

"Remember when I told you that we hadn't really seen each other in a while, and I didn't know where he was?"

She nodded again.

"Well, that's because, ten years ago, when we were teenagers, my dad threw him out of the house. We'd been really close up until then. Sure, we kinda…drifted, as teens, but…" He faltered. He thought back to those days as a seventeen-year-old, getting more frustrated with Stan hanging around him than he usually did. He felt ashamed to admit he felt suffocated by his brother's presence more days than not. He kept the exact thoughts to himself, but he had begun to distance himself from Stan. They talked less, did less together. Stan had never said anything about it, though there was no doubt now that his twin had indeed noticed the sudden coldness. "We just…I don't know if you know any twins personally, or are one yourself, but it's different than having other siblings. For so long, we'd just been a package deal. Stan and Ford, Ford and Stan. Know what I mean? That never happened to our older brother. Shermy never got lumped in with one or both of us. But we were always together. I guess I was getting resentful."

"That's what teenagers do," Dr. Bergstrum said. "They want to find out who they are. And you didn't feel like you could do that if you weren't even just Ford."

Ford nodded. "So, when my principal told me about recruiters coming to our school from West Coast Tech, because they'd heard about a project I'd been working on, I was so excited. I worked on that perpetual motion machine for weeks. Stan didn't seem too thrilled about the prospect of me leaving. He…wasn't a book smarts kind of guy."

He decided to at least spare Stan's dignity and gloss over what the principal had actually said about him. He owed Stan that much.

"The day the recruiters were supposed to see my project, I was so nervous and excited. But the project didn't work. It was totally broken and wasn't moving anymore. I eventually found evidence that Stan was the reason behind it. I confronted him about it, and he told me it was an accident. And then Dad found out. He was mad as hell at Stan for supposedly ruining my future." A lump lodged itself directly in Ford's throat. God, he hoped he didn't start crying again. He was so sick of crying. Swallowing thickly, he said, "So Dad kicked Stan out. Told him not to come back until he'd made back the money I would have earned by going to West Coast Tech. I knew it was impossible, but I didn't care. I was too angry to care that Stan was only eighteen, that he couldn't ever feasibly make back that money. I just let him leave…" Ford scrunched his pant leg up in his fist, the lump in his throat refusing to budge this time.

"I let him leave, and he spent the next ten years living out of his car. Like I said, he didn't tell me a whole lot about what he did, but I do know he's been to prison, fallen in with rough people. Who knows what he did for money in that time. And I spent all that time worrying about school and my research grants and I never even thought about him once…" Ford was ashamed when his words were once again swallowed up by soft sobs. He was surprised when he didn't tear up. Maybe he was all out of tears.

His voice was hoarse as he said, "The only reason he's out here now is because I needed him to do something for me. Before yesterday, I was still so mad at him for the whole thing, I acted like he didn't exist. He got so upset when he realized it wasn't really him I wanted to see. That's what we fought about. He finally ran out of patience for my selfish bullshit. And now he could be dying…"

And now the tears did come. He didn't bother to wipe them away. They trailed hot and lazy down his face, dripping off once they reached his chin, and splattering on his pants.

A handkerchief came into view. He looked up and realized Dr. Bergstrum was holding it out. "You were just a kid," she said, her tone even and firm. "Both of you were. You'd just had your dreams crushed, and your brother thought he was going to lose his best friend. Neither one of you made very smart decisions, but the only thing anyone can blame you for is holding on to a grudge for way too long."

Ford accepted the handkerchief and wiped away the tears. He even went so far as to wipe the embarrassing trail of snot from his nose. He hoped she wouldn't mind. She didn't say a word about it.

Instead, she continued. "I told Stan about the possibility of him having AIDS. He didn't take it well. He hasn't spoken a word to anyone since I told him, and he's started refusing food. He didn't touch his breakfast, and before I left, the nurses were complaining about wasting lunch on him too."

Ford gripped the handkerchief tighter.

"He needs someone, Ford," she said. "You want to make up for not being there for the last ten years? You want to show that you do care about him? This is the way you start. He's scared and all alone. From what you've told me about his relationship with your parents, you're all he's got."

Ford remembered his early-morning conversation with his father, and nodded limply.

Dr. Bergstrum said no more. She looked down at Ford, waiting for his answer.

Ford looked away from her. Somewhere deep in his brain, a voice nagged at him that he didn't deserve to go back to Stan. If he was all his brother had, then his brother was better off alone. He tried not to think about Stan laying listless in a hospital bed (which was just wrong because Stan was active and vital and spry and he was a boxer he wasn't meant to lay so still), staring at nothing, not even feeling the aches and chill brought on by his illness…

At the thought of Stan with a chill, Ford remembered something. He turned from Dr. Bergstrum and walked briskly out of the room. He ignored her saying his name in slight shock, and wandered back to the storage area where he had set up the washer and dryer. Dr. Bergstrum was trailing briskly behind him. He heard her sensible shoes tapping against the wooden floor. He reached the storage room door, flung it open, and strode over to the washer. He flung open the lid so hard it hit the machine with a loud, metallic clang. He heard Dr. Bergstrum gasp a little at the sudden noise.

There, at the bottom of the washing machine drum, was a red jacket with a fleece hood. Stan's jacket. Ford had forgotten to put it in the dryer the day before. Stan was probably freezing without it, with just that hospital gown and those flimsy blankets. He didn't remember the jacket from when they were younger. Ford would venture to say it was something Stan had spent a lot of hard-earned money on, because it was something very essential to his ensured survival.

Ford wanted to clutch that jacket close to him and never let go of it.

He finally heard Dr. Bergstrum say his name, after the fourth time. "Are you okay?" she said.

He drew a deep breath, held it for a moment, and exhaled slowly. He needed to bring Stan his jacket.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Never better," he said. Strangely, he kind of felt like, maybe, that was true now. "Do you mind waiting about an hour before we go back to the hospital? I need to dry this before I take it to Stan."

Dr. Bergstrum let out a small chuckle, and said, "Sure. Not a problem. We can talk about that weird little white-haired man I saw digging through your trash while I was waiting for you to answer the door."

Ford opened the door to the dryer and tossed the jacket in, smiling a bit. As he pressed the button to start the cycle, he said, "Oh, that's just Schmebulock. He's one of the harmless ones. Darryl's the one you have to watch out for. I once saw him disembowel a squirrel over week-old Chinese take-out."

Dr. Bergstrum's eyes practically lit up as they left the storage room and went back to the living room.

Stan Pines did not dream often. It came with the territory when you tried not to sleep as much as you could without turning yourself into a drooling zombie.

And when he did dream, they were usually random belches of color and sound, maybe the hint of a face he didn't recognize. Maybe some memories of Columbian nights, or of the night Dad threw him out, if fate was feeling particularly unkind to him on a dark, moonless night. To his knowledge, he'd never had one of those dreams where his teeth fell out or he showed up to school without pants on or where something was chasing him, and no matter how fast he ran, he couldn't escape.

It was why he felt it was so strange that he was dreaming now. Was it really a dream if you knew it was just a dream? Did that even make sense?

All he knew was, for once, there were solid things in his dreams. He was at a beach, one very similar to Glass Shard Beach, down by the boardwalk. Where he and Ford would work on the Stan O'War after school, and, when they got tired, laze around on her decks and talk about treasure hunting. Even though his home contained more bad memories than good for him these days, Stan found himself oddly at peace in a place so familiar. He could practically feel the sand between his toes, and it made him smile.

Movement drew his attention to his left, and there was Ford. Not Ford as he was today, but Ford as an eighteen-year-old boy. For some reason, seeing his brother this way, before everything went to hell, was comforting to Stan. Ford was skipping stones in the eerily calm ocean. He flicked his wrist exactly the way Stan had taught him, and the skips were perfect every time. As if he sensed he was being watched, young-Ford looked up. He broke out into a grin and waved, beckoning his brother to join him.

Stan was more than happy to oblige. Young-Ford was happy to see him, made no allusions to an ulterior motive. He just wanted to hang out with his brother, like they always did.

"What kept you," Young-Ford called out as Stan got closer. "You get detention again?"

"I guess so," Stan said. It was odd, but it felt like his voice hadn't actually come from him. He didn't even feel his lips open to form words.

Young-Ford laughed. "You guess so? What, you get it so often, the days are starting to run together? Maybe you're going crazy. Like Dr. Manette in A Tale of Two Cities. Pretty soon all you'll remember how to do is make shoes!"

Stan didn't know who the hell Dr. Manette was, but he heard himself laugh anyway.

"Don't worry, though," Young-Ford said. "I won't let them break you! I'll stage a jail break, and then we'll sail into the sunset, just like you always wanted to. Right?"

Stan felt himself smiling. That had been the dream, hadn't it? He'd told Ford they'd sail away from this crummy town, find adventure and land girls and be accepted for who they were. He'd said it at the time to cheer Ford up, after another day of getting mocked by Crampelter and his dumb-as-bricks cronies. He'd promised Ford that they'd find him a place where freaks like him fit in. The truth was, Stan had never seen his brother as a freak. He wanted Ford to know that, if nothing else, he'd always fit in with his brother, no matter what. It'd developed into a dream they shared, well into their teens, until everything had come crashing down on them and Stan realized the truth, that his brother didn't think Stan's acceptance was good enough.

He looked down at this young Ford, who looked up at him with eyes wide and trusting, who believed it when his brother said their was a place for guys like them. It made his heart ache to think he'd somehow lost that look from his Ford, and he'd never realized it until it was too late.

Suddenly, the ground beneath him and young-Ford began to quake. They pitched forward, landing on the sand that was now cold and unforgiving beneath them. Stan could feel it sticking into his palms like knives.

The ocean that stretched out before them turned choppy and dark, gaining a red hue that reminded Stan far too much of blood. Waves began to crash against the shore, as if they'd become trapped in a freak hurricane. With each swell, the waves grew bigger and bigger. If Stan didn't know better, he'd swear they were taking shape the higher they rose. Almost triangular.

And then the eye appeared. A single, glowing yellow eye, with a black slit acting as its pupil. It bored into Ford and Stan like a hot nail struck in precisely the right way by a maliciously guided hammer. It was wide and stared and Stan felt like, if he didn't look away from it, he was going to go crazy in a matter of minutes.

Nasally, taunting laughter suddenly began to echo from nowhere. Stan wanted to cover his ears to block out the horrible sound, but found his arms were completely useless by his sides. The laughter continued as two columns of water shot out from the churning wave that made up the triangle. One wrapped itself firmly around Stan, cutting off his air as it crushed his rib cage and lifted him off the ground . The other grabbed hold of Ford, and started dragging him into the ocean.

That got Stan into panic mode. As Ford was dragged past him, he forced his hand to move and grab hold of his brother's. He clutched that six-fingered hand with every ounce of strength he had in his body. That horrible laughter just pealed on, mocking their attempts at fighting the will of whatever monster was trying to take Ford away.

Then, with one final tug from the beast, Ford's hand slipped out of Stan's. He wanted to call out as he watched his brother be pulled under the waves, desperate fear written all over his face, but nothing on him seemed to work anymore. He just watched as the bubbles that came up from Ford's frantic struggling slowly dissipated, and that laughter just went on and on and on…

That was when Stan's eyes shot open. He couldn't stop the gasp that escaped as he realized he was no longer on that hellish beach, watching his brother be pulled into the undertow. He was in his hospital bed, where he'd been all day. Afternoon sunlight poured in through his window, a stark contrast to the darkness of his dream. His heart beat so fast, pounding away painfully in his rib cage, that he completely forgot about the emptiness that had been plaguing him in that time as well.

He'd had nightmares before. There were never like this. This…he couldn't even begin to think of words that could describe what had just run rampant through his consciousness. That…thing in the water, whatever it was, with its one eye and its awful laugh. A shudder ran through Stan's body. He'd never felt so cold in all his life.

When he heard a knock on the entryway to his room, Stan nearly jumped out of his skin. As he snapped his head in that direction, he almost expected to see that narrow slit staring back at him. Instead, he saw doctor lady from before. She'd ditched the lab coat, and instead had a nice wool black one on. She almost looked like any person you'd meet on the street.

She gave an apologetic smile. "Sorry," she said. "Didn't mean to spook you."

Stan didn't respond. He'd been making a habit of that all day, and now that he'd just almost had a heart attack thanks to that frigging dream, he really wasn't in the mood for chit chat.

The doctor lady sighed. "Still doing this, huh?"

Silence.

"Have you eaten at all since I last saw you?"

Silence.

"What, do you plan on starving yourself?"

Silence, accompanied with a withering glare. God, couldn't this woman take a hint?

"Look," she said, slowly coming over to the side of the bed, her coat swishing around her ankles, "I know this is scary. I'm not sure, if I were in your situation, I would be reacting much differently. But I also know that, if this were me, I wouldn't want people to just let me give up. And there's always the possibility that the test could come out negative. But you can't let this knock you down."

Stan looked up at her, and saw that her resolve visibly weakened when she saw his face. He wondered just how bad he looked. Could she see the disease written so plainly all over his face. "You don't get it," he mumbled. Good lord, he even sounded old. "All my life, stuff's been trying to knock me down. And I always told myself the same crap you're spouting to me now - that I couldn't let it lick me, that I had to keep fighting because, eventually, things would turn around. I would get back on my feet, no matter how much it hurt to, and tell myself I was gonna show everybody that I wasn't some screw up who was gonna be scraping barnacles off a salt water taffy shop forever."

Stan wrapped his arms around himself. He hadn't done that in a long time, not since those first couple of months after he'd been kicked out, and he just desperately wanted the feeling of being held. "But I can't do it anymore," he continued. His voice was barely above a whisper. "I've got no more reasons to keep trying." He felt his eyes well up with tears again. "I might have AIDS. If I do, it'll kill me, and that scares the hell out of me. But even if I don't, what difference would that make? I'm…I'm just so tired of fighting. I can't…I just c-can't…"

He trailed off, his words trailing off in soft sobs. He pulled his knees up and hid his face away in them, away from that look of pity the doctor lady was giving him. He felt himself rocking back and forth a little. He didn't even care how ridiculous he looked, how pathetic his tiny, childlike sobs sounded. He never wanted to face the world again.

He faintly heard footsteps rushing over to his bedside. He thought for a moment the doctor lady was coming over to comfort him. But no…these sounded heavier, more frantic. It couldn't be…

He looked up, and there was Ford. Tears spilled down his face in torrents, making his eyes look watery and strange behind his glasses. He sniffled and hiccupped just as freely as Stan did, so hard that his whole body shook with the force of them. In his trembling hands, he held a red jacket. Stan's red jacket.

It was cleaner than Stan ever remembered seeing it. He could smell the detergent and even a hint of fabric softener on it. Ford held it out to him. "I forgot about this yesterday," he said. His voice trembled as badly as the rest of him. "I thought you…you might want it here…just in case…just in case you got cold…"

And suddenly Ford's arms were around him, and Stan was nearly knocked back with the force of the hug. He felt his eyes go wide in shock, but what really got his attention was the flurry of speech he suddenly heard in his ears, hot and breathy and pouring forth like water from an overflowing stream. "I'm sorry," Ford babbled. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I can't say I'm sorry enough. This is all my fault. I shouldn't have let Dad kick you out, I should have said something, I shouldn't have been so stupid, I should have tried to help you, oh God, Stan, I'm so sorry…"

Ford's arms tightened around him, like he was afraid Stan would disappear.

"I know you have every right to hate me," Ford said, his voice louder, but still shaky with sorrow. "You never have to accept my apology, and if you want me to, I'll leave. But please don't ever say something like that ever again. Please don't give up because of me. I'm not worth that kind of talk, Stan."

Stan was so confused. He thought back to the night before, the ugly words that his brother had hurled at him. They were still as raw and painful as a fresh gunshot wound. "You just wanted me to get away from you," Stan heard himself mutter. His voice was flat. "After all this time, all you wanted was for me to go away."

"I know," Ford said, guilt dripping heavily from those two simple words. "I…I've messed up a lot these past ten years, Stan. I wasn't lying when I said I'd been through some bad stuff. I…it scared me, and I didn't know where else to turn. I meant it when I said you're the only person I trust anymore. But I guess I ruined that by being such a jerk. Some brother I turned out to be…"

Ford loosened his grip a bit, pulling back, but never taking his hands off Stan's shoulders. Stan found he was glad his brother decided to maintain contact. Ford's face was etched with exhaustion as he said, "I meant what I said, Stan. If you don't want me around anymore, I won't argue. I'd deserve it. But I don't want you to have to deal with this by yourself. Whatever that test says, I want to be there for you." He smiled sadly, then added, "I've got ten years of brotherly duties to make up for, after all."

And then Ford was silent. Stan knew he was waiting for his answer - stay or go. Hadn't having his brother back been what kept him going all this time? But this was the same brother who only wanted him around to do something for him. He looked up at Ford again, and he saw the nervousness there.

For a brief moment, Stan wanted to cling to his anger. Let it simmer in the pit of his stomach and finally bite back. Let Ford know what it was like to be abandoned over one stupid mistake.

A stupid mistake like the one he'd made in high school. The one that had ruined everything.

Yes, Stan knew very well what it was like to be on the receiving end of such anger.

He looked down at Ford's hands. Six fingers still clutched his freshly-laundered jacket.

He reached out and took the jacket out of Ford's hands. "Thanks for washing it for me," he said. His lips curled into a smile.

Another tear streamed down Ford's face, dripping off his chin. He threw his arms around Stan again, and this time, Stan reciprocated, squeezing as tightly as he could. Something inside of him felt whole again.

"I missed you, Sixer," he said quietly.

"I missed you too, knucklehead."


	6. Chapter 6

It was 6:30, and night had fallen, heavy and tired, over the small town of Gravity Falls. Stan sat up in his hospital bed, waiting for his brother to come back from the cafeteria. He wore his red jacket with the fleece hood. Even after all these hours, it still held some warmth from the dryer.

For the first time since he was eighteen years old, he felt at peace with the darkness gathering outside.

He and Ford had spent most of the day catching up. They had a ten year gap to fill, after all. And Ford figured that, after the exhausting day Stan had, he could use a little levity.

True, they'd both been through nine kinds of emotional hell, but Stan was the one who'd had to be rushed to the hospital with pneumonia. He was also the one that might have AIDS.

Stan gripped a corner of the thin blanket on his bed and crumpled it in his hand. He'd tried his very best not to think about the possible diagnosis all day. As much as Ford and Dr. Bergstrum (which he'd learned was doctor lady's name, though she was starting to insist they call her Helen), tried to reassure him that there was only a possibility, and nothing was certain yet, Stan knew the truth. He was as likely a candidate for AIDS as the poor bastards who were contracting it up in New York and over in California. Hell, he'd been a goddamn whore for hire for a year and a half. Who knew what kind of weird-ass diseases those skeevy creeps he'd been paid to show a good time were spreading around? The kind you didn't see when you got to do a dick check.

He kept his feelings on the matter to himself, though. He'd been as brief as he could when Helen asked him about his sexual history again, mumbling about turning tricks, hoping to God Ford wouldn't hear him. The last thing he needed was the brother he'd just made amends with to look at him like some kind of perverted trollop.

After that was over with, and his humiliation died down just a bit, Ford had suggested they talk for a while. The "while" had turned into five hours of stories and anecdotes and laughter from both the brothers, to the point where Stan sometimes forgot he was in the hospital at all.

It had almost become like a competition, with each of them trying to top the other in terms of crazy things they'd done over the last decade. Ford told Stan about pulling three all-nighters in a row preparing for his organic chemistry final and hallucinating fish hooks coming out of his professor's hand the next day. So, Stan told him the grisly details behind being trapped in the trunk of a car and having to chew his way out. Ford tried to top it by telling him how, when he went home for Thanksgiving one year, he and Shermy nearly burned down the house because Mom had the stomach flu and couldn't cook. Stan told him how he landed himself in a Colombian prison, and ended up learning Spanish from a large, intimidating inmate named Hector who took a shine to him (he even demonstrated his favorite phrase to Ford - "Puedo matar a un hombre con un cepillo de dientes. No joda conmigo.")

By the time either of them bothered to check the time, both their stomachs were grumbling something fierce. Ford had valiantly volunteered to try and track down the cafeteria to find them something to eat. According to him, the girl at the help desk was not what one would describe as a people person. He apologized to Stan in advance if it took him a couple days to get back, a silly grin on his face.

Stan had watched him go with a matching smile. Even in his wildest fantasies about being reunited with his brother, he'd never really gotten beyond the tearful apologies and the hugs full of regret for the wasted years. He'd never thought about what their relationship would be like after. The fact that they could just fall back into ribbing and jokes and playful arm punches like when they were boys made him feel like the single happiest man on Earth. He didn't feel like his hope about having his brother back, for real this time, was quite as unfounded as it had been before.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ford walking back into the room, a young woman, probably a candy striper or some other sort of volunteer, trailing after him. Both carried trays laden with food. Stan couldn't help but notice that the young woman was small and blond, her hair cropped short, with green eyes behind a thick, circular pair of glasses. As she pulled out Stan's bedside table and set her tray down on it, Stan also noticed that she kept stealing not so covert glances at Ford, smiling goofily every time. Stan had to bite back a chuckle.

Ford pulled the chair he'd been sitting in over with his foot, and, turning to the girl, said, "Thanks for your help…Amanda, was it?"

"Uh huh," she answered, not even bothering to hide the dreamy quality in her voice. "Anything to help, Dr. Pines. If you need anything else, just ask."

Ford smiled and turned away from her, completely oblivious to her mooning over him. Stan was trying so very hard not to burst into hysterics. Fortunately, Amanda walked (or rather, floated) out of the room after that, and he didn't have to anymore.

"What's so funny?" Ford asked as Stan laughed.

"Oh man, does that little girl ever have a crush on you," Stan replied.

Ford looked positively scandalized. "What are you, crazy," he asked. "She can't be more than seventeen."

"Maybe she just likes older, sophisticated men," Stan said, jokingly. Ford gave him a scowl, and he added, "Don't be so grumpy, Sixer. I think it's kinda cute. Besides, it's not like she wants to marry you or anything. It's just puppy love. Happens to teenagers all the time. Like when I was thirteen and had a crush on Rabbi Weinstock's twenty-year-old daughter?"

Stan saw Ford smile a little, "Yeah, I remember her. Joy, right?"

Stan nodded, and Ford scrunched his face up in exaggerated thought. "I also remember you doodled her name all over your math homework once, and you got detention to redo it. You just doodled her name all over that too." He chuckled. "Okay, teenagers and puppy love. I hear you."

Stan laughed right along with him. "Now, weren't you telling me a story before you stole that poor kid's heart? Maybe the reason you don't return the candy striper's affections is because of this Anita girl who keeps ending up in your stories?"

Stan smirked when that got Ford to blush.

Apparently, Anita was a girl Ford had gotten friendly with while he was in school, and she could best be described as something of a party animal. She frequently dragged Ford and his friend Fiddleford away from their studies to have some fun. One of these nights of merriment began with Ford and Anita getting drunk out of their minds, and ended with the slightly-more-sober Fiddleford having to keep them from streaking through the park.

"Although he almost didn't catch Anita in time," Ford added. "She already had her pants undone. Would have gotten them the rest of the way off too, if she hadn't gotten her fingers tangled in her belt loops and fallen over when she tried to pull them out."

Stan laughed long and loud. When he managed to catch his breath a little, he said, "Really? A beer and a half? That's all it took to get you to try and streak?"

"Well, it was a beer and a half, and the shots Anita convinced me to take," Ford said, the blush creeping back into his face. "So it's not like I'm a complete lightweight or something."

"I never even pegged you as the type to walk into a bar, let alone get completely shitfaced," Stan said, leaning back against his pillows.

"You can thank Anita for that," Ford replied. "Without her dragging Fiddleford and me out of our dorm every once in a while, we wouldn't ever have left. She was a strange girl, but we appreciated it."

"Did she?" Stan's raised an eyebrow suggestively, and, if at all possible, his brother turned even redder.

"No, nothing like that happened," he said. Stan could tell Ford was a little more than disappointed about that fact. "Heck, most of the time, she didn't even act like she liked us that much. She hardly even called us by our names. I was always 'nerd' and Fiddleford was 'redneck nerd'. But she stuck around for whatever reason. We'd come into our dorm and there she'd be, sitting on one of our beds, wearing one of our shirts and reading one of our books. We never did figure out how she managed to keep getting in without picking the lock…"

"Sounds like my kind of woman," Stan said. He decided it'd be a good idea to start eating before his food got cold. Not that he really would have minded - he'd eaten out of garbage cans before when he'd gotten really desperate - but he still would rather eat his food while it was still hot. Even though the food that Ford swore up and down was pot roast and potatoes looked like a cooked rubber shoe, it would still probably be better than most of the crap he'd eaten in the last ten years. He was grateful for it as he sawed off a hunk and put it in his mouth.

As they ate, Ford talked about his research in anomalies, and that the high concentration of them drew him to this backwater little hamlet in the middle of nowhere. When Stan had eloquently expressed his doubt about his brother's findings (he remembered snorting out a laugh and telling Ford maybe he needed to ventilate the lab the next time he mixed chemicals together), Ford had surprised him by reaching into the weathered knapsack he'd brought with him for an overnight stay, and pulling out his journal.

"Didn't you want me to bury that thing when I got here," he asked after swallowing another mouthful of potatoes.

Ford looked a bit sheepish as he clutched the book to his chest. "Well, yeah…" he said. "But…ya know…it's my research. I'm still proud of it. Besides," he said, brightening up as if he'd just remembered a very important point, "it's not like this one book is very useful on its own. For the really dangerous stuff, you need all three, and the other two are carefully and masterfully hidden." With that last statement, Ford looked immensely proud of himself. Stan couldn't help but roll his eyes at his brother's fat head.

"Anyway, once you get a look at this book, you won't think my research is so weird." And with that, Ford plopped the book open in Stan's lap. "Go ahead, just flip through it."

Stan tweaked his eyebrow a bit, but he did as his brother asked. He skimmed the pages, all hand-written with intricate sketches and complex codes scribbled to the sides. There was a page about a UFO that had crashed in the town millions of years ago, leaving a distinct, unnatural pattern in the cliffs, possibly creating the valley itself. There was an entire section on unicorns, and the various magical properties they possessed. In bright, red letters on the bottom of the page, the word "FRUSTRATING!" was written, and underlined twice.

And then Stan had flipped to a page that made him stop and stare. Drawn on the page was a strange little triangular creature. It had two thin, stick-like arms and legs, a jaunty top hat floating above its uppermost point. What struck Stan the most was the single staring eye, directly at the triangle's center. The pupil was a mere narrow slit. He remembered that slit well from his dreams.

It sent a shiver down Stan's spine.

"What the heck is that thing," he asked. Ford set aside the paper cup of water he'd been drinking out of, and edged over to get a better look. As soon as he saw the creature on the page, he went quiet. Stan turned his head up to look at him, and realized that Ford's eyes were filled with a weird mix of apprehension and guilt. Whatever this creature was, Ford obviously hadn't had a pleasant experience with it.

"That's Bill Cipher," he said, his voice small and quiet. "He's a demonic entity, more powerful and more dangerous than anything I've ever encountered. He's the reason I built that portal in the basement. He taught me how, gave me the answers I needed to finish it. He told me he was a muse." Ford's tone took a sharp, angry edge. He looked away from Stan.

"He used me," Ford continued, his words dripping with shame. "If he gets through that portal, he'll bring about the end of the world. That's why I was so adamant about you taking the journals as quickly as possible. Once they're hidden, then I can dismantle it and, hopefully, trap him in his own dimension forever."

The air hung heavy between them for a while, Stan trying to take all of this in, that his brother had nearly brought about the end of the world.

For a brief moment, Stan wished he had his lighter on him again. At the very least, he wanted to rip out that staring eye and set it ablaze, if only to get it to quit looking at him.

Ford let out a shaky sigh, and then turned back to Stan. "I know I have no right to ask that of you now. I'm so sorry I tried to drag you into this, force you to do my dirty work. Bill is my responsibility, and I'll deal with him and the mess I made. As soon as you're feeling better and out of here, you can stay at the house, and I'll go somewhere to hide the journal."

Stan felt a knot forming in his stomach. He was regretting shoveling all that food into his gullet, because now a feeling of nausea swept through him. He swallowed thickly and said, "What happens if I'm not feeling better when I get out of here? What if the test…"

Ford cut him off, his tone taking a sharp edge, "The test will be negative, Stan. I keep telling you, there's nothing to worry about."

"Ford, what if you're wrong," Stan said. Ford's mouth snapped shut. Stan sighed and said, "You and I both know that I'm at-risk. I know you heard me telling Helen about what I was really doing in Las Vegas. I had sex with strangers for money, plain and simple. You really think I could live that kind of life and come out with nothing to show for it? It's not like the guys I was with would have told me about something like that. They probably wouldn't even have known themselves, at the time."

He found himself briefly thinking about Yolanda, and all the others who'd worked in Tony's brothel when he had. He hoped they were all okay.

Ford was looking down at his shoes, guilt written all over his worn face. "I know," he mumbled. "I just…if I let myself think about what might happen to you if that test does come out positive…I don't know if I'll be able to handle it." He looked up at Stan, and Stan could see the pain in his eyes. "I just got you back, Stan. I can't lose you again so soon."

Stan reached out a hand and placed in on Ford's shoulder. He didn't want his brother to beat himself up about this. Now that he was looking at things through a lens not clouded by pain and anger, it was very easy to tell Ford felt responsible for what happened to Stan throughout the years. He even felt responsible for the fact Stan had been kicked out in the first place, even though the blame for that lay squarely at their father's feet. But since Filbrick would probably never admit that out loud, Ford picked up the slack. And it was painful to watch.

"Hey," Stan said, "even if I do end up having it, that doesn't mean I'm going down without a fight. That disease is gonna be sorry it ever mess with a Pines man."

Ford smiled a bit at his brother's enthusiasm. "Because Pines men are tougher than anything," he said softly.

"Exactly," Stan replied. "Nice to know Dad's stupid saying finally applies somewhere, huh?" He smiled when Ford snorted out an abrupt laugh. "Now, c'mon," he continued. "I wanna hear more stories about these freaky things in this book. Like, what the heck is so frustrating about unicorns?"

Ford scoffed a little and rolled his eyes, then said, "Jeez, where to begin? Well, for starters, at least one of them has this weird thing about shoes…"

When Ford opened his eyes to a bright, sun-filled room, the first thought that went through his mind was how much he'd missed sleeping in an actual bed. It was amazing that even a hospital bed could be worlds more comfortable than passing out in a chair or curling up under a desk when you were really exhausted and out of it.

Stan's room was meant for two people, one of the only rooms that was given how small the hospital was, but through some miracle, the other bed was empty. So, when it had gotten late and both brothers started yawning more than talking, Stan had insisted that's where Ford would sleep.

Ford had thought ahead this time, and actually stuffed his college knapsack with some pajamas and two changes of clothes, along with his deodorant, toothpaste, toothbrush, and comb. He'd been more than a little embarrassed when he had to dust them off before shoving them into the knapsack.

He planned on sticking around for as long as Stan needed to stay here. According to Helen, that was another two days.

Ford heard his brother shift slightly in the bed opposite him. He couldn't help but smile a little. Despite his best efforts, Ford never really got used to having his own bedroom. At home, it would take him hours to drift off, the silence that should have been peaceful and comforting just feeling empty and oppressive. He would just lay in his top bunk for hours, until he couldn't anymore. It'd never occurred to him to maybe move down onto the lower bunk and sleep there, probably because there was a part of him that still thought of that as Stan's spot. Sure, it was a little silly, but that's how things remained until he moved out.

He thought he'd have it a little easier when he and Fiddleford became roommates at Backupsmore. It wouldn't be exactly the same, but at least there'd be another person there. But it just…wasn't enough. Eighteen years of getting used to another person's noises and habits while they slept was a hard thing to break yourself of.

Stan was a rough, but sound sleeper. He snored a little and moved a lot, but nothing ever seemed to wake him up. Ford had actually been kind of unnerved when he began to realize Fiddleford barely moved at all, his breathing so quiet, you had to watch closely for the rise and fall of his chest to make sure he was still actually doing it. That was part of the reason Ford had cultivated the sleeping habits he had now. It was hard to notice all the little things you were missing when you were so tired it took you a second to remember where your bed even was.

Now, listening to the deep, heavy breathing of his twin, Ford found he felt a sense of peace he hadn't felt in a long time. He ventured to say not since he was a child. A pleasant warmth spread through him, and he smiled sleepily. It was good to have his twin back.

He stretched, relishing in the quiet pops of his spine, and groped on the side table for his glasses. His hand bumped into something hard that shifted a little. When he found his glasses and put them on, he realized the thing he'd bumped was his journal. He stared at it like he'd just found a venomous spider waiting to strike him.

He didn't really know why he'd brought it with him, but as he was packing things in his knapsack, he spotted it, still sitting on the floor where Stan had dropped it. Without a second thought, he went over and picked it up, then shoved it into the bottom of his bag. He couldn't explain it, not even to himself. All he knew for sure was that he couldn't leave it here. He just knew that it wouldn't end well at all if he did.

Turned out it had been at least a little prudent. It'd given him a chance to show Stan just what he'd been doing out here, just how crazy this town was, why it was so important to hide these journals where no one would ever find them. From the frightened expression Stan wore as he studied the page about Bill, Ford knew that Stan would agree to the urgency of that now.

Stan shifted again, drawing Ford out of his thoughts. He could worry about the journal later. Stan was his priority now.

He swallowed a little, and suddenly tasted something akin to the smell of burnt rubber and old sneakers. He realized quickly that taste was his own mouth.

Okay, new priority: brushing his teeth in an attempt to make his breath fractionally more palpable.

He tossed back the covers and put his feet on the floor (praising whatever deity existed that he'd remembered to wear socks because title floors were freezing cold), taking a moment to stretch again. He fought every urge to just lay himself back down, let this lazy, warm feeling spread through him till he was asleep again. He vaguely recollected that he hadn't had one nightmare, certainly not any featuring that damn triangle, all night long. It'd been nice, and he would have liked to continue. Just curl back under the covers and not come out until Dr. Bergstrum had them forcibly removed.

Unfortunately, he ended up swallowing another mouthful of that awful morning-breath taste. Yeah, that woke him up a bit. No going back now.

His knapsack sat in a nearby chair, and Ford fished around it for his toothbrush and toothpaste. He left everything else for now. He could get dressed and tidy up a bit more when Stan woke up. His brother needed all the rest he could get. It was better not to wake him before he was ready.

He padded over to the bathroom, and caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror as he wet his toothbrush in the sink.

He'd certainly looked worse, he had to admit. At least some of the redness in his eyes had gone away. He reached up and stroked his face, where thick, dark stubble had grown. It made a distinct scritching noise. He hadn't shaved in at least two weeks, and hadn't bothered to bring his razor with him now. He'd always found shaving tedious anyway, and rarely did it unless his face started to itch.

He recalled when his father decided that his sons were ready to learn to shave. They were fifteen, barely a square inch of peach fuzz between the two of them, but Filbrick told them it was time they learned. The Pines patriarch had always been meticulous about maintaining his facial hair. He took great pride in his mustache, a big, bushy, push broom of a thing that Ford had no memory of ever seeing him without. which he always told Stan and Ford he'd grown to look just like his own father's. And someday, they could both do the same, because real men had impressive facial hair like his. As he squirted a bit of toothpaste on his toothbrush, he tried to imagine himself growing a mustache similar to his father's.

The image that came to mind was so ludicrous that he almost choked on the lather from his toothpaste.

Stan had been pretty excited to learn to shave though. To Stan, growing up was an exciting adventure. It meant getting old enough to leave home, explore the world, like he always told Ford they would do someday, when they Stan O' War was finished.

Stan had been proud of every milestone they hit together. When Dad had enrolled them in boxing lessons, concerned about the black eyes and bloody noses and broken glasses his sons habitually sported, Stan had been the one who took to it like a fish to water. It had been an attempt to toughen them up, and Stan leapt at the chance to, as their father had put it, "fight like a man".

Driving lessons had been the exact same way. It'd actually shocked Ford when their dad mentioned how easily Stan took to driving their beat up Buick, one of the very few signs of being impressed their father ever expressed in their young lives.

Stan had not only gotten his driver's license two days after their sixteenth birthday (the first time he'd ever passed a test on the first try), but he bought a clunker of a car off the owner of the local junkyard with the money he'd saved up over the year, and shanghaied Ford into helping him fix it up. That had tickled Dad even more, and he'd gone so far as to congratulate Stan. A man needed his own car, after all.

That car was now the Stanley-Mobile, and Stan apparently loved it enough not to sell it even in his most desperate moments of poverty.

Ford spit out his toothpaste, then started to run the water to rinse. Nothing he could do could wash out the acidic taste of hindsight out of his mouth though.

He'd never noticed how much Stan did, smiling and compliant, in the name of their father's approval. It made him think back two days ago, when all this began. How he'd dragged Stan out here, in the middle of a violent winter, all to ask him a favor. How Stan had shown up so quickly, despite the fact, looking back, he'd so obviously been too sick to travel. Ford had seen the signs, but at the time, he hadn't cared. Stan was there, and Stan would do what he asked. Nothing else had mattered.

Ford wanted to stand at that sink, leave the faucet running, and continue berating himself for being such a selfish prick, not just these last ten years, but all his life. He wanted to let these nagging thoughts of how he could have not noticed what Filbrick was doing to Stan, how he could have just let Stan suffer that way, what kind of a brother was he, trip through his mind and let himself feel like a monster all over again.

But that wouldn't fix anything. He could deride himself for past transgressions until he was a blubbering mess of self-loathing on the floor, but it wouldn't fix the damage that had already been done.

He had played a large part in what happened to his brother. Most of the blame lay with his father, but not all of it. Ford accepted that. Now, it was his duty to fix it.

One of the many steps to fixing it was a phone call to his parents, maybe even an invitation to Oregon, so they could all talk. Filbrick certainly had a lot to answer for. But right now, Ford would settle for sitting down with Stan and trying to reconnect.

It wouldn't be easy, but, for Stan, he was willing to do it.

Footsteps behind him made him jerk his head to look behind him, not even caring that his mouth was still foaming with toothpaste he hadn't washed away. Old habits, and all that.

In the doorway to the bathroom was Dr. Bergstrum. She smiled at him and said quietly, "Good morning. Sorry about sneaking up on you. I didn't want to wake my patient." She nodded her head in the direction of Stan's bed. Ford heard him shift again, snorting a bit as he did so.

Ford exhaled deeply, then nodded. He quickly rinsed out his mouth and shut off the water. He wiped his mouth on a nearby towel and said, "That's okay. I was just…thinking."

"What about," Dr. Bergstrum asked. She leaned against the doorframe, her hair, plaited in a braid today, swinging a bit behind her back.

"About Stan," Ford replied, slightly amazed by how easy it was to say to her. "Mostly about how, when he's better, I think a long chat with our parents is in order."

"Sounds like a plan," she said, smiling a little. She adjusted her glasses a bit, and added, "Actually, talking about Stan is kind of the reason I'm here. I know this is probably a stupid question, but your brother isn't on any major insurance plan, is he?"

Ford sighed again. He'd known this was coming. It'd been plaguing him since the day before. Stan, of course, couldn't pay for all this himself. Fortunately, in the time he'd been thinking about it, he'd already come up with a plan. "I'm fairly certain he doesn't have insurance," he said. "But I'm covering the costs, so its not a problem."

Dr. Bergstrum's eyes widened a bit. "You sure?"

"Yes," Ford said firmly. "I have some…artifacts that I've been meaning to sell anyway. I think they'll more than cover the cost."

He thought about all those solid gold, triangular statues in his private study. He figured that they'd be worth something. The thought made him smirk a little in triumph. He could practically hear Bill growling in frustration.

Dr. Bergstrum nodded a little, and said, "Okay. I'll make a note in his file." She suddenly looked quite grave, and added, "There is another thing I wanted to talk about. It's a little more complicated than payment."

Ford felt his stomach drop. He knew what was coming. It was exactly what he'd been trying to avoid talking to Stan about all the night before.

Even then, he found himself totally unprepared when Dr. Bergstrum asked, "Have you thought about how you're going to handle any further treatment Stan might need. I know we're all pulling for a negative here, but it'd be wise to be prepared."

Ford had not. He'd spent so long trying to convince Stan and himself that there was no way the test would come out positive, he hadn't thought about what might happen if it did. Even if Stan seemed so sure that he'd be able to beat this, to fight as hard as he could to keep the disease at bay, Ford couldn't stop picturing what was going to happen when treatment no longer helped. It made him feel nauseous, almost faint. Images of Stan sick and weak flooded his mind, and he fought hard to keep it from making him turn into a sobbing mess again.

Dr. Bergstrum seemed to sense his distress. She closed the distance between them and put a hand on his shoulder. He looked up at her, looking so put-together and objective, but having so much sympathy and care left in her eyes. Ford had to marvel at the way she managed to do that, force herself to stand tall and do her job when it involved so much heartache and so many broken lives. "I know this is hard to think about," she said softly, "and I don't mean to upset you. There's still a very good chance that Stan is fine and there's nothing to worry about. But you still understand where I'm coming from, right?"

Ford just nodded.

"I have a friend who works in a clinic in California," Dr. Bergstrum continued. "That's how I've been keeping abreast of the crisis, despite being so far removed from it. He's been getting an influx of recently diagnosed people there. If worse comes to worst, Stan would probably receive far better care there than we could give him here. It's just something to consider."

Ford nodded again. Dr. Bergstrum pursed her lips in an anxious line. He could tell she wanted to say more, but was at a loss.

Ford heard Stan yawn in his bed, then the covers rustled a little as he sat up. Ford looked at Dr. Bergstrum, who gave him a quick, sympathetic smile, before breaking out into a grin and turning to leave the bathroom. "Good morning," Ford heard her chirp as she went out of sight. "How are you feeling today?"

"A little less like I was hit by a speeding truck," Stan said, his words strained as Ford guessed he stretched like a cat. "But I guess that's a good thing in this case."

"I think that's always a good state to be in," Dr. Bergstrum replied. "Now, let's give you a once over. Make sure that not-hit-by-a-truck feeling is warranted.

Ford took a deep breath and followed Dr. Bergstrum's example, forcing himself to smile as he came out of the bathroom. When he emerged, he saw Dr. Bergstrum placing the earpieces of the stethoscope she wore around her neck in her ears. She put the paddle on Stan's back, and said, "Breath in as deeply as you can." Stan obeyed. "Now let it out slowly."

As Stan let out the breath he'd been holding, Ford walked over to the chair by his bed, and slowly sat down. He almost felt like he was intruding.

He stayed as quiet as a mouse while Dr. Bergstrum checked Stan over, asking him about his chills and his cough and every other symptom. He couldn't help the sense of dread that crept up on him as he listened to the two converse. Stan actually seemed rather cheerful. Really, Stan seemed like a whole new person.

Now that Ford thought about it, he was beginning to realize that it was a new person, but the old Stan, coming alive once more. The same Stan who made stupid puns and jokes that still managed to make people laugh. The one who ran everywhere and jumped around like a little kid when he got excited, but could crash on the couch and not move for six hours straight if he felt so inclined. The one who had consistently protected him from bullies, no matter how old they were, whether said bullies were schoolyard lunkheads shouting taunts at him, or catty girls who berated him for his infatuation with someone so completely out of his league. Stan defended him from all those people, chalking it up to brotherly duty.

And in eighteen years, Ford had never even once thanked him. Sure, he'd made one stupid mistake, but at least now, Ford understood why. He needed the time to make it up to Stan. There was no other way around it.

"Alright," Dr. Bergstrum said, snapping Ford back to reality. She was smiling brightly. "Looks like you're on the mend, young man."

"Great," Stan said. Without missing a beat, he asked, "Now how much longer will it take to figure out my other problem?"

Dr. Bergstrum seemed a little taken aback by the question. She quickly composed herself, however, and said, "We should know this time tomorrow."

Stan nodded solemnly. Ford, however, didn't miss the way his brother balled up the corner of the blanket in his fist. Try as Stan might to put up a tough front about all of this, Ford knew he was scared. He knew because he felt exactly the same way.

As Dr. Bergstrum continued telling Stan about how he may want to consider out-of-state treatment options, Ford glanced down at his watch. It was 10:30 am.

Twenty-four hours was all that stood between them and his brother's fate.


	7. Chapter 7

Stan Pines was afraid. There was no dancing around it. He thought he'd come to understand fear living on his own. He thought that what he'd endured - facing criminals, doing hard time, fearing what would happen if you shut your eyes - those were the sorts of things that were the things to really be afraid of.

Now he knew there was nothing more terrifying than waiting for someone else to tell you whether you are going to live or die.

Ford sat by his side, in his usual chair at the edge of his hospital bed, holding on to Stan's hand. He knew Ford was afraid too. His grip was so tight it was almost uncomfortable. But Stan was grateful for it.

The last twenty-four hours had been rough for them both. They'd tried to pass the time by talking again, but it wasn't as easy as it had been the last time. The ever-present fog of uncertainty lingered between them. Helen had talked to them both about options if Stan needed further treatment. She assured Stan that it was all hypothetical at this point, but, as the hour of judgment crept ever closer, he couldn't help but lose what little faith he had. Ford had tried to distract him as best as he could, but nothing seemed to help. He just couldn't relax.

"Ya know," Stan said, surprised by how even his tone was, "it's funny. Yesterday, I wanted this moment to come more than anything, just so I'd finally be able to stop wondering. Now that it's actually here…I kinda want some of it back."

Ford only responded by squeezing his hand a little tighter.

"Any minute, she's gonna come in here and tell me what my future's gonna be, Ford," Stan said quietly. "The rest of my life depends on whether she says yes or no.'

Ford looks down at him, and Stan saw his eyes were watery. His brother swallowed thickly, and said, "No matter what she says, Stan, whatever the outcome, I'm going to be right here. No matter what we need to do, I'm going to help you through it. Alright?"

Stan nodded, feeling himself smile a bit. A small spot of comfort managed to wriggle its way past the terror. His brother was here. His brother cared.

"I just want you to promise me one thing," Ford said. He shoved his free hand up under his glasses, scrubbing away the tears that threatened to fall. When that was done, he looked down at Stan, his face serious. "I want you to promise me that you won't give up. If she comes in here and tells you…bad news…I…I don't want…you can't…you have to fight, okay? You just…you have to…I can't…"

Ford didn't bother to wipe away the tears that fell now. Reaching up with his free hand, Stan cupped his brother's cheek and gently wiped them away with his thumb. He didn't need to press his brother to continue to know what he'd been trying to say. "I won't, Sixer," he said softly. "I promise you, I won't."

Ford seemed to deflate with those words. He gave Stan a small smile back, leaning into palm still resting on his face. Stan knew it must be calloused and rough, but Ford didn't seem to mind. It was like he was trying to revive a connection that had withered slightly, but remained despite ten years of neglect.

Someone cleared their throat. It pulled both brothers back into reality. Dr. Bergstrum stood in the doorway, her face unreadable. Stan removed his hand from Ford's face, but held fast to Ford's hand. He figured they both needed it now.

Dr. Bergstrum came in the rest of the way, and met their eyes. The room was totally silent, not even the sound of their breathing permeating the thickness of it. For a moment, the entire world stood still.

Finally, Dr. Bergstrum took a deep breath, and said, "Your test results were fine."

Stan felt something break in him, a floodgate of pure joy surging through him. He wanted to burst into tears and whoop with happiness all at once. He didn't know what to do with himself. He just felt his eyes go wide, and he couldn't stop himself from staring at her in disbelief.

Beside him, Ford was having the opposite reaction. He had stood up from his chair, beaming from ear to ear, muttering, "This is wonderful. Stan, you're okay! You're okay!"

And suddenly Ford's arms were around him, nearly knocking Stan back. At last, Ford's own excited happiness seemed to trickle through to Stan, and he flung his arms around his brother. He wanted to hug Ford until his arms were jellied with exhaustion.

He was okay. He wasn't going to die.

Well, he was, but not for a long, long time.

"Oh my God," he breathed. "I…oh God, I can't believe this."

"Believe it, mister," Dr. Bergstrum said. She too had broken into the biggest smile Stan had ever seen. "You're totally clean." Her smile wavered a little as she added, "I really thought you'd be a little more enthusiastic about this."

Ford let Stan go from his hug, and Stan took the opportunity to run a hand through his hair, still trying to let all this sink in. He turned his attention to Dr. Bergstrum, and said, "I'm sorry, I'm just…I'm still trying to wrap my head around it. I've been sitting here for an entire day, resigning myself to the fact that I would have it. And just like that…I don't. It's crazy, ya know?."

Dr. Bergstrum's face softened and she replied, "Yeah. It might not mean much, but I do know what you mean." She let that hang between the three of them for a few seconds before clearing her throat again, and adding, "Now, just because you're AIDS free doesn't mean you're off the hook. You're still recovering from pneumonia, and you're still going on that antibiotics regime I mentioned, not to mention I want you to get so much bed rest, you'll practically be glued to it. But the good part about that is you get to go home."

Stan felt a twinge of doubt at the mention of home. He wasn't sure where that was going to be after he left this hospital. Vegas, obviously, was out of the question now. No matter how good he'd been at turning tricks, he wasn't going to risk his health again for a few bucks. But where else was there?

Then he felt Ford's hand on his shoulder. He looked up, and saw his brother smiling down at him. He knew then where home was going to be for him now. He reached up his own hand and put it on Ford's.

Dr. Bergstrum did not miss it, and smiled wider. "Normally, even people who test negative require more counseling," she said. "But it seems to me like you've got a pretty good support system right here. Still, if you ever feel like you need someone to talk to, don't hesitate to ask me. I can refer you, and get you any kind of help you need."

"Thanks," Stan replied. "For everything."

Dr. Bergstrum nodded, and said, "Any time." She turned to go. "I better let you guys start packing up. You're probably anxious to get out of here. A nurse will be by soon to get the IV out, and then you're a free man, Stanley Pines." Before she walked out the door, she looked over her shoulder at them and said, "And don't ever let me catch you in my hospital again for anything other than check-ups, got it.? Just because we're friendly doesn't exempt you from those glares I warned you about."

"Yes, ma'am," Stan said, giving her a two-fingered salute.

And with a wave, Dr. Bergstrum was gone.

For a moment, Ford and Stan just sat there, neither of them willing to make a move. Stan was worried that, if they did, this would all turn out to be some kind of crazy mistake.

But then Ford stood up, exhaling in a way that seemed to imply he'd been holding his breath. "Well…" he began, but trailed off. What could you say in a moment like this?

For a moment, Ford just stood there, his hands hanging limply by his side. Then, he blurted out, "I guess this means we'll have to invest in another bed."

Stan couldn't help himself. He started to laugh. He reached out and grabbed his brother's arm, and said, between giggles, "C'mere, ya nerd." Then he practically crushed Ford in a giant hug. Ford returned it without a sound.

This was a good day.

Ford added a finishing touch to his sketch of Bill. A fire crackled away in the nearby hearth. The room felt downright cozy. He looked up for a brief moment and saw that the sky was dark, nary a star to be seen. He could see the moon from his chair at his desk, though, and it was full. It lit up the remaining snow on the ground, turning the world luminescent and otherworldly. Just like when he was a child, the sight filled him with wonder and a strange calm. It was the first time he'd felt calm in his own home in months, even with this small reminder of his tormentor right in front of him. He reveled in that fact.

He and Stan had gotten home no later than noon earlier that day. Although Stan had tried to keep up his happiness about being AIDS-free, eventually, the fact he was supposed to be recuperating caught up with him. He'd been napping on and off all day, upstairs in Ford's bed. Until they could get another bed for him, Ford surrendered it. He could sleep on the couch that lined his bedroom wall. It was more than roomy enough for him.

Sometimes, Ford would go up and talk with him, just light chatting to see how he was doing. He'd even dug up his well-worn copy of Treasure Island and read to Stan while the latter ate a small lunch. Even after he'd finished, Stan stayed awake to listen. He didn't make it past the part where Jim first met John Silver, but that was alright. Ford just stuck a scrap of paper in to mark his place and left the book on the bedside table. They could finish it later.

But, any time Stan had been asleep throughout the day, Ford had been at his desk, working tirelessly on his new journal. He'd been intending to use the fourth leather bound book when he finally ran out of space in his third. That was before he'd decided to bury it deep in the forest, unfinished, but away from where those who might use it for evil could find it.

The more Ford had thought about that idea, the more he realized that his plan hadn't exactly been that well thought out. Sure, the journals were well-hidden, but they could still be found. And when they were, they still had the information about Bill and the portal in them. They could still be used for nefarious purposes, if someone were so inclined to it. And this wasn't even factoring Bill into things. The demon was crafty, and could very well find another unwitting pawn to find the journals and start this madness all over again.

So, Ford decided he'd take away one of the enablers. He'd spent hours meticulously recreating the notes, sketches, and codes he'd put in his old journals. He even fished out the remainder of his invisible ink, so when the time came, he'd be able to use it to recreate everything he'd learned.

He only left out two things - any information about the portal, and anything good about Bill. He had dedicated the last page in this new book to that triangle bastard, and would make sure that no one who ever saw these books would dream of summoning him ever again. He'd line the margins with warnings, write plain as day that Bill was not to be trifled with. If he thought leaving Bill out completely would help. But in his experience, naivety was not a good tool for fighting against the darker side of the world. People needed knowledge, and even if it meant admitting that you'd been an idiot and taken advantage of, at least someone else could learn from you and not repeat the mistake.

Ford shaded in the last bit of Bill's hat. That slit pupil stared up at him, but for Ford, it held no more sway. He wasn't going to let Bill win this. He was going to fight in any way he could.

Beside him was a list, scribbled hastily in his own hand. It was his to-do list. On it were four simple things: dismantle the portal, find Fiddleford, call Mom and Dad, recreate the journals.

And now, at least part of his mission had been complete.

First, he closed the new journal. It didn't have the gold foil handprint on it yet. He'd add that in the morning. Then, he closed the old one. He took it in his hand and stood up from his chair. It felt cold and heavy in his hands. The book was part of his life's work, but it also contained six years of his suffering. At the hands of Bill and from his own stupid pride.

It was time to go about this the way Stan had originally intended to - cleansing by fire.

He reached the hearth, and before he had time to stop himself, Ford threw the journal into the flames. It was consumed almost instantly. The smell of burning paper and ink filled his nostrils. As the edges curled and bits of the cover crumbled away into ash, Ford felt something lift off him. He felt absolutely weightless. He thought it would be sad to watch the journal that had started it all be destroyed like this. But it was amazingly cathartic.

There were more important things in this world than research. Research could be replicated, rewritten, redone. Some things did not have that luxury.

From the living room, he heard his cuckoo clock striking ten. He turned away from the hearth. He needed to wake Stan for his medicine.

Outside, the woods of Gravity Falls slept in the chilly winter night. All was peaceful.


End file.
